


Clueless, or: How I Learned to Stop Being a Selfish Prick and Love a Capsicle

by withthepilot



Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Banter, First Love, First Time, Multi, POV First Person, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-15
Updated: 2012-06-22
Packaged: 2017-11-07 20:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 36,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Okay, so you're probably thinking,</i> This guy seems like a total douche. <i>You're half right.</i></p><p>  <i>But seriously, I'm a completely normal teenager. A normal genius-billionaire-philanthropist-playboy teenager. Who goes to a school for government agents and superheroes in training. Every morning, I get up, trim my goatee, take a shot of Jack Daniels (which Ke$ha totally stole from me, by the way), and pick out my school clothes.</i></p><p>A <i>Clueless</i> AU, starring Tony Stark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My KINGDOM to [screamlet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/), who said, "WRITE ME SOME IN AN EMAIL" when I first got stuck on the idea of this AU, and then was subjected to about a zillion more emails thereafter, when I just kept going. Either it was exactly what she intended or she made a HUGE mistake. She also whipped this into shape throughout the writing process and laughed when I threatened her with physical harm for it. She is a champ and this fic owes a ton to her feedback and encouragement.
> 
> The story takes most of its plot cues from the movie and a small amount of dialogue from the original script is sprinkled in, here and there. Parts 1 and 2 are PG-13. Thanks in advance for reading.
> 
> NEW: The astounding exmanhater has done a podfic of the story, which is available for download [here](http://amplificathon.livejournal.com/1543869.html)! Running time: 3:15:40. Thanks so much to her for her dedication with this beast of a story!

Okay, so you're probably thinking, _This guy seems like a total douche_. You're half right.  
  
But seriously, I'm a completely normal teenager. A normal genius-billionaire-philanthropist-playboy teenager. Who goes to a school for government agents and superheroes in training. Every morning, I get up, trim my goatee, take a shot of Jack Daniels (which Ke$ha totally stole from me, by the way), and pick out my school clothes.  
  
"JARVIS! MAKE ME PRETTY."  
  
"I've already taken the liberty of fetching an outfit for you this morning, Mr. Stark."  
  
"Did you fetch me a fetching outfit?" I step toward the large, walk-in closet and check out what JARVIS has picked out for me. He's got great taste—I programmed him that way—but I like to keep him on his toes. "Ehh. It'll do."  
  
"Very good, sir," he drawls. I know he's an AI unit, but trust me, JARVIS can fucking drawl.  
  
My parents are both dead so I live with this hardass named Nick Fury, who's taken it upon himself to try and whip me into shape, make me realize my potential, blah blah horseshit blah. It's fine because it gets lonely in the mansion when it's just me and JARVIS. Fury is the director of an agency called S.H.I.E.L.D. and it's all he can ever talk about. He needs to get laid something fierce. Also, he's missing an eye, which is my favorite thing to needle him about.  
  
"Morning, Cyclops," I say, entering the kitchen. Fury is eating oatmeal, of all things. The guy wears an eye patch, carries like, eight concealed weapons, and he eats fucking Quaker Oats for breakfast.  
  
"Don't start with me, Stark," he mutters, not looking up from his newspaper. "You're already running late for school."  
  
"School schmool." Not a great comeback, but honestly, school is for chumps. I'm already rich and smarter than everyone else there. Or, well, maybe not smarter—but I am richer and better looking. I grab a protein shake from the fridge. "Got a lot of world-saving to do today?"  
  
"It's classified. Oh, and don't make any plans tonight. Steve is in town and he's coming for dinner."  
  
" _What_." I throw myself upon the kitchen island. Fury just rolls his eyes. Eye.  
  
"Be nice, Tony."  
  
"He's like, _two hundred years old_. And _boring_. Why do I have to be nice to him?"  
  
"More like ninety," Fury says, smirking. "And because. Much like you, he's my responsibility. And he's a good influence. Just because he was frozen for over half a century doesn't mean he can't teach you some life lessons."  
  
"Maybe he can teach me the jitterbug," I mutter under my breath.  
  
Fury has exceptional hearing. "He was too busy fighting Nazis to dance! Remember _Nazis_ , Stark?" he calls out. "Saving the world so your lazy ass could sit in a lab and make toaster ovens all day instead of doing your goddamn homework! What do you think about _that_ , big mouth?"  
  
I flip him off as I leave the kitchen. A typical morning, all in all.  
  
*  
  
Did I happen to mention that I drive a convertible? I do. It's red with gold detailing and tricked out as fuck because that's how I roll. It does double-duty as a lady magnet _and_ a dude magnet and it's pretty much the best ride ever. I don't have a license yet because whatever, I'm Tony fucking Stark and I _know_ how to drive. I don't need a piece of plastic with an organ donor sticker on it to tell me what I can and can't do. Also, I need my organs. All of them. Forever.  
  
I drive up to Coulson's house, where he's standing by the curb and waiting, as always. In an impeccable dark suit, as always. Coulson's dream is to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. and he takes it just a wee bit too seriously, if you ask me. We're friends because Fury made us. All things considered, I like Coulson. He comes off as rigid and serious, but he has his moments of badassery. I once saw him incapacitate someone with a pencil and a wad of bubble gum in the boys' locker room. I could not even tell you how.  
  
"Good morning, Agent Coulson," I say, as he gets into the car. He loves being called "Agent." He gets this little gleam in his eyes every time.  
  
"You're always late," he says. "And then you make me late."  
  
"Phyllis, this baby goes from zero to sixty in negative three seconds. Trust me, we won't be late."  
  
Coulson twitches. He's not as fond of "Phyllis" as a nickname.  
  
"Just drive," he says. So I do. As fast as the car can take us. Coulson's tie flies up into his face and he sputters. "Tony, that was a stop sign back there! Not to mention an old lady in a wheelchair who's probably a blue-haired smudge on the pavement, thanks to you."  
  
"I totally paused!"  
  
J/k, I didn't.  
  
After we arrive at Avengers Academy, we're barely out of the car for ten seconds before Coulson starts getting texts from his boyfriend. Clint Barton isn't a bad guy—he's the captain of the archery team and he's probably going to be the most deadly sniper ever one day, so I do my best never to piss him off. But he's pretty needy and treats Coulson like his own personal handler sometimes, always texting him and wanting to know where he is. It's like Clint can't even take a piss without telling Coulson about it.  
  
"He can be kind of insecure," Coulson says, by way of explanation.  
  
"Kind of an understatement. You could do a lot better, Coulson."  
  
As if on cue, Clint comes sashaying down the pathway, showing off his tight outfit, flexing his biceps at everyone.  
  
"Really, Barton, we're all very impressed," I say. He ignores me and looks at Coulson instead.  
  
"Baby, why haven't you been answering my texts?"  
  
I smother a snicker into my palm and Coulson goes slightly red in the face. "Barton, this isn't the time or place for that," he says.  
  
Clint just frowns and folds his arms across his chest. Seriously, this guy is desperate to show off the guns. "You didn't come to the shooting range the other day. I was waiting for you."  
  
"Well, Clint," Coulson says. Then, cool as a cucumber, he opens his messenger bag and pulls out a skinny, disheveled tie. He holds it up with the very tips of his fingers, like it's diseased. "Maybe it's because I was dismayed after finding this cheap Men's Wearhouse tie on the floor of your car."  
  
Everyone around us oohs and aahs. I, for one, am _riveted_.  
  
"That looks just like any of the fifty zillion ties in your closet," Clint says. He gets a face full of fabric.  
  
"I do _not_ wear polyester ties, Barton. Unlike some people I know, like _Sitwell_."  
  
Clint scoffs and flicks the tie away. "Jeez. Is it that time of the month or what?" he asks, which is a bad, bad move, because Coulson can be a bad, bad man when he wants to be. A grand total of no one is surprised when Coulson gets up in Clint's face and snarls,  
  
"I know approximately ninety-seven ways to kill a man and nearly twice as many ways to dispose of the body so _do not test me_."  
  
"Bye, Phil!" I say cheerily, taking my leave. I really don't want to stick around for when Barton craps his pants in fear. That smell tends to linger in the nostrils.

  
*  
  
"Is it ever morally sound to kill in the name of justice? Is there any truth to the old adage of an eye for an eye? Darcy will take the con position and Tony will be pro. Tony, two minutes."  
  
Dr. Banner motions for me to get off my duff and hop to the front of the classroom. He's kind of a sad sack, that Dr. Banner. He'd clearly rather be teaching a physics class than debate, but the school administration got all freaked out after the failed experiment that turned him into the not-so-jolly green giant. Still, I'd argue that debate doesn't seem like an adequate fit for him, considering that debates often turn into heated arguments and heated arguments could mean that we all become human playthings for a large, seething, hulk-like creature. The dude's kind of a liability, is all I'm saying. And I didn't sign a waiver. Banner likes me, though, I'm pretty sure. I rule at debate. I can talk my way through anything.  
  
"Okay, boys and girls, so here's the thing," I say, pulling up my pants by my belt loops at the podium. "Right now we are plagued with all kinds of bad guys and villains, and even aliens, for Christ's sake. And they couldn't care less about killing all of us. So we're pretty much chumps if we get on our high horses and rail against reciprocity. Anyone ever heard of my dad? Howard Stark? Super mega genius, made all sorts of weapons and whatnot? Yeah, so there was this one time when he developed this huge ray gun and I mean, people were _pissed_. Like, what the hell do we need that for, right? Fuck this warmonger. But then when the shit hit the fan during the Cold War, well. Who do you think was the big man on top? So, in conclusion, kill 'em all and then sort 'em out later, after a round of drinks. Am I right?"  
  
The applause is deafening. I give a little bow and smirk at Darcy, who scowls at me.  
  
"Dr. Banner, Tony is clearly deluded. I can't hold a debate with a crazy person."  
  
Banner looks perturbed, but he takes a deep breath and looks around. "Well, does anyone else have a rebuttal for Tony? Or another thought? Loki?"  
  
Loki looks up, clearly uninterested. "Yes. I can't locate my mobile device. I'll have to return to the quad before someone steals it."  
  
"Stay seated," Banner commands. Loki huffs.  
  
" _Fine_. I'll just conjure myself a new one."  
  
"Hey, could you conjure me up a cheeseburger?" I ask as I take my seat. "I'm _starving_." He just grins at me.  
  
Banner, on the other hand, turns his attention to Jane, his number one, A+ student who's so nerdy it hurts. Too bad, too; she could be really cute. But she's always going on and on about science this and astronomy that. And no one likes science more than me, but seriously, lady, give it a rest. Banner nods patiently as Jane goes on and on about advancements in science and technology and their latent effects on the American legal system until he finally interrupts and puts a stop to that because dear god in heaven, who gives a shit.  
  
Debate over and squared away, Banner tries to shrug off his remaining annoyance at us all and get back to business. "All right, it's report card time," he says, eliciting a round of groans. "Is there a Natasha Romanoff in this class?"  
  
I kick my feet up on the desk and raise my hand, ever the eager helper. "Word on the street is that Natasha's on a mission in Lithuania, taking down a drug cartel, Bruce. Which, on the one hand, seems like a pretty apt real-world application of the things we learn here at this fine academy but on the other hand, is also one a hell of a middle finger to the whole educational system as it currently operates. If you ask me."  
  
"No one asked, Stark. No one ever asks. And don't call me Bruce."  
  
Everyone looks generally unhappy about their report cards, aside from Jane, who's all smiles. I'm not worried myself—that is, until I get a load of my debate grade. And suddenly I'm not so fond of good ol' Brucie anymore.  
  
Coulson's just as pissed when I run into him in the hall. "Banner gave me a _B_. S.H.I.E.L.D. is never going to accept an agent with a B on his record."  
  
"Yeah, well, he gave me a B+. B for big bushel of bullshit because I rule at debate." I shove my report card into my bag and shake my head. "Dude clearly needs someone to go down on that big zucchini dick of his."  
  
"I'm inclined to agree," Coulson says. He adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, a steely look in his eyes as he starts to stalk away. "I'll see you later. I need to go stab something."  
  
"Lemme know if you need to borrow a pencil."  
  
*  
  
Is Stark Mansion not totally cramazing? It is, I know. Built on the greenbacks of Howard Stark's legacy in arms development. My dad always told me he worked for the government but mostly, I think he worked for himself. Whatever he did, it kept him away from the lavish mansion he paid to build, and it was most definitely shady. I'm guessing there are bodies buried under the floorboards in the basement. Speaking of Howard, there's this ridiculous oil painting of him in the foyer, as soon as you walk in the house. He had it commissioned a few years before he and my mom died in a car accident. It's tacky as hell but I can't bring myself to take it down. Sometimes, I like to think that dear old dad is still watching over me, judging every single thing that I do.  
  
"Hey, dad," I greet him when I get home from school. "A+ on the mechanical engineering midterm. So _suck it_."  
  
In the kitchen, I'm greeted by the obnoxious sound of big band music and I know who must be here.  
  
"Okay, so I know the 1940s seem like yesterday to you, but haven't you learned to enjoy Katy Perry by now? Or what about Adele? You're in college; they like crybaby music in college."  
  
Steve looks up from the hoagie he's inhaling and smirks at me. Big, broad-shouldered, lumbering Steve. It's hard to believe there was an iceberg big enough to hold the guy all those years. Fury talked him into going to college, since he never got the chance before he became the country's favorite blond and blue-eyed super-soldier. He's majoring in history. Of course.  
  
"Sorry I'm not acclimating to pop culture as quickly as you'd like," he says. "Shouldn't you be conning your way into a strip club somewhere?"  
  
"If I'd known tonight was going to turn into a literal production of _The Iceman Cometh_ , I would be." Never mind that I did know. I just don't want to give Steve the satisfaction. "Why are you even here and not on campus? Go hang out with some history groupies and stop taking advantage of Fury's inexplicable kindness."  
  
"Hey, just because I'm at college doesn't mean I have to stop hanging out with Fury."  
  
"Actually, Kato, that's exactly what it means. He sent you there to get rid of you."  
  
"What's a Kato?" Steve asks. He follows after me as I head into the living room with a bag of Chex Mix and park myself on the couch. Of course, he plops down right next to me, easy as you please, without even asking if it's okay. Since when did Stark Mansion become the Home for Abandoned Aryan Boys? I turn on the TV but not fast enough to escape that puppy-dog look that Steve probably invented back at the founding of Jamestown, or maybe while he was hiding from the Spanish Inquisition. "I like it here. It reminds me of your dad. Of the past."  
  
"Yeah, well. The past and my dad are both dead, so long live the Cartoon Network." Steve reaches over at that moment and swipes the remote from me, turning to CNN. "Hey! Do you even know how to use that thing? It's not a toy or a kitchen utensil, okay?"  
  
"You know, in some parts of the world—maybe not your booze-soaked laboratory—but in some parts, people actually like to be informed about what's going on in the world."  
  
I roll my head back onto the cushion and look at Steve through half-lidded eyes. "Because I so need lessons from a senior citizen on how to be cool. Tell me, Captain: Are you wearing your leopard print or neon orange Depends today?"  
  
He arches a brow. "I don't know what those are. But no. I'm not."  
  
I think it's safe to say I've won this round.  
  
"DINNER'S READY!" Fury shouts from the dining room. "GET YOUR PRIVILEGED WHITE-BOY ASSES IN HERE."  
  
We do as the man says. There's a delicious looking dinner laid out, courtesy of JARVIS. Steve, polite guy that he is, thanks JARVIS for the meal, which is totally uncool. I don't want my AI unit that I built with my bare hands to like Steve more than he likes me. JARVIS is my baby and a one-of-a-kind system. I designed the prototype way back at the tender age of thirteen and stupidly gave it the name TRISHA—short for "Tony's Ridiculously Intelligent Super Hot Assistant," if you were wondering—along with a voice overlay that resembled a phone sex operator. I say "stupidly" because every time the system talked to me, I got an instantaneous and massive hard-on. Puberty's a bitch. It took two months of stubborn and furious masturbating before I realized it was bound to be an ongoing problem. Et voila, JARVIS was born. And he's great, but he's always been a pushover for other people's compliments, namely Steve's. I should program that out of him.  
  
Watching Fury and Steve together has always turned my stomach. They shake hands and then it's all, _Good to see you, sir, an honor as always, sir_ , someone shoot me in the face with one of Clint's arrows, please, dear god.  
  
"Steve, you still growing from that serum? You look even bigger than you did last time I saw you. Tony, doesn't he look bigger?"  
  
"Probably not where it counts," I answer helpfully. Steve scowls at me. It's kind of great.  
  
"Not everyone's as obsessed with their own dick as you, Stark," Fury says. Goddamn cyclops. "Anyhow, where's your report card? I'd like to see if you've been doing any thinking with your _other_ head lately."  
  
I shrug and grab a piece of chicken and a roll. "It's in the works."  
  
"The works?"  
  
"Yeah, you know, it's sort of a work in progress. These teachers, man, they need all the help they can get. So we're gonna talk it out. Real talk. It'll be great, trust me."  
  
Fury's phone rings and he gets up to take the call in another room. "Whatever."  
  
"Honestly, Tony," Steve says. He takes two giant pieces of chicken and starts tearing into them, as if he wasn't just eating a sandwich the size of Montana about five minutes ago. "I think all those morning whiskey shots have rotted your brain. A student can't 'talk out' a grade with a teacher. A grade is a grade, based solely on academic merit."  
  
"That's all very admirable, Captain Eagle Scout, but this is the 21st century." Speaking of whiskey, I remember I have a flask in my jacket pocket, so I dig it out and pour a little happiness into my soda. "And trust me, Rogers. This ain't my first rodeo."  
  
I offer Steve the flask, feeling generous. He sniffs at it, cringes, and shakes his head. Sweet, more for me.  
  
*  
  
JARVIS forges a doctor's note that I hand off to my P.E. teacher, Coach Hill, which says that I shouldn't exert myself physically, due to the arc reactor. In fact, I shouldn't even be _going_ to gym class because the reactor is still in beta. Hill verbally rips me a new one for not giving it to her sooner, but she can't really argue with it. C instantly raised to an B+. It's not a perfect grade but it's plausible and spares me from class participation. I'd rather shove a beehive down my pants than submit myself to a game of dodgeball.  
  
Then I tell Ms. Potts I'll interview a Forbes 500 CEO in order to get a better perspective on contemporary business practices. She's skeptical, but she buys it, thanks to an extra helping of the Stark charm. Hopefully she enjoys fictional interviews.  
  
Banner, though? Banner totally doesn't take the bait. He calls me a "johnny come lately," whatever the hell that means, tells me to get lost, and slams his office door in my face. I think he might even be a tad on the green side by the time he throws me out of there. I'm feeling a little green myself, my head about to explode from frustration, so I decide to go the only place I can really go when I'm feeling down.  
  
A half-hour later, I'm face down in a pile of scrap metal, welding to my heart's content in the comfort of my basement lab. Don't worry; I'm wearing a mask. Can't mess with this pretty face. Coulson stands behind me, sipping a Sunny D. His head is tilted in that _I'm totally analyzing you right now_ way that always gives me the creeps.  
  
"What's wrong? You seem a little more high-strung than usual, and that's saying a lot."  
  
"It's that goddamn Banner. I tried to get him to listen to reason—"  
  
"With what, your checkbook?"  
  
"I do have some moral standards, you know. Not many, but some." I stand up and push back the mask, just so I can frown at Coulson. "With my excellent powers of persuasion, thank you very much."  
  
Coulson smirks at me, his straw still between his lips. "Which you clearly don't have, considering your B+ in debate."  
  
"According to _Banner_."  
  
"Banner, yes. A miserable man who wishes he could turn back the clock, so he'd still be teaching science classes and not risk turning into a monster every time someone forgets his homework. But he can't, and he's our high-strung debate teacher instead, so get over it."  
  
"He needs to get laid, then he'd be happy," I mutter. I'm about to go back to the welding when suddenly, it hits me. Divine inspiration. "Phil. Oh my _god_."  
  
Coulson narrows his eyes at me. "Oh, no. Tony, _no_."  
  
But we both know it's too late. I already have a plan.  
  
The thing about Banner is that most people are scared shitless of him. Well, people who aren't his students, that is. None of the other faculty members ever talk to him because they're afraid he's going to hulk out and beat them all to death with their own desks. Though, honestly, I don't think any of them talked to him even before his accident. It would be a sad story if I cared. We need to set him up, big time, but none of the female faculty in this school seems available or interested. There's Coach Hill but she's a little scary, even for a rage monster. I imagine she must be aggressive in the bedroom, which could spike Banner's blood pressure, with Hulk-y results. I can't have that sort of thing weighing on my conscience.  
  
The only other person I can think of is Ms. Potts. There's nothing wrong with Potts, per say—she could be kind of a babe if she threw away her glasses and trimmed a few inches off that skirt of hers. And I bet she could use a good roll in the hay.  
  
So, the next day, I leave a note in her mailbox that says, "You, me, Bonertown," with a rose and a condom taped to the stem. Coulson gives me the most withering look he's ever given anyone, and for a moment, I think I'm going to turn to ashes.  
  
"What? It's romantic."  
  
"It's the opposite of romantic," he says. "Give me that." He rips the condom off the rose and throws in the trashcan, and I quickly retrieve it. Waste not, want not. When I glance back at him, he's scribbling a new note, which looks like...a poem? I swipe it from him when he's done.  
  
"Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands," I read aloud when I get to the end. Needless to say, I'm stunned. Phil Coulson clearly has inner depths, the likes of which I never imagined. "Where the hell did you get this from?"  
  
He goes a little red in the face. "It's Cummings. It's famous. Don't blame me if you never pay attention in English."  
  
"Why would I do something like that?"  
  
We stick around in the hallway like creepers, peering into the faculty lounge, until Potts shows up and gets a gander at the rose and the note. The look on her face tells a story, namely that it's getting a little misty under that too-long skirt of hers. Coulson looks almost proud of himself, until I elbow him in the side.  
  
"Nice one, Agent Coulson."  
  
"Better than yours," he says. I don't deny it.  
  
Later, when I find myself in Banner's class again, he's announcing class tardies and getting more pissed off by the second. I don't know why they even make him do this. It's a crime scene waiting to happen. Jane Foster is the only one with a perfect record, and Loki, asshole that he is, yells "Speeeeeeech!" Jane clearly doesn't get the joke, and she stands up and goes to the podium. It's almost heartbreaking to watch. Yet also astounding. Like a train wreck.  
  
"Well, I didn't have anything prepared, but...I guess I'd like to thank my dad for always driving me to school? And the company that makes my alarm clock. Well, alarm _clocks_. I have three, just in case."  
  
Loki falls forward onto his desk and snickers into his arm. I wish I had a bucket of popcorn, personally.  
  
"All right, Jane, that's enough," Banner says, shooing her away. "Back to your desk. Maybe later I'll teach you the concept of sarcasm. Next up, Tony Stark. Two tardies."  
  
"I object!" I yell, smacking my desk.  
  
"Well, this isn't a courtroom, Mr. Stark. And you can't object, considering that one was just last Monday."  
  
"Dr. Banner, I'm a latchkey child. My parents are _dead_. I had to walk to school in the rain that day." Not true, I took the convertible, and it was gloriously sunny that day. "All alone." Coulson was with me, and we jammed to the Beastie Boys. It was pretty great. "You should be glad that I managed to make it to school at all." Because I would much rather have stayed in, played Mario Kart, and eaten my weight in Eggo waffles.  
  
Banner sighs heavily, his mouth twitching. He might be more amused than angry, I'm not sure. "All right. I suppose I can let that one slide."  
  
"That is too awesome, Dr. Banner. Thank you. Man, Potts was so right about you."  
  
"Potts?" he says. "As in, Ms. Potts the business teacher?"  
  
"Yeah, her. We were shooting the shit the other day and she was all, 'Man, everyone here is SO DUMB, except for Dr. Banner. They should really let him teach science again. He sure is the cat's pajamas. Not bad to look at, either.' She really nailed it."  
  
Okay, so maybe I go a little overboard. But it's all good, because by the time I glance at Banner again, I'm pretty sure he's already halfway to Bonertown.  
  
*  
  
"Stark, what the _fuck_?"  
  
Ah, the siren song of Nick Fury. I peek into the open doorway of his office (technically my office, since I'm nice enough to let him live here and pretend to be my guardian, but whatever) and wrinkle my nose. "What the fuck what?"  
  
"Why in god's name are you getting _driving violations_? Of all the stupid, cockamamie things."  
  
I shrug and lean against the wall. "It's not my fault the cops have it out for me."  
  
"Considering you don't even have a license, you should be glad they haven't hauled your pasty ass to jail." He flicks the ticket at me and grunts, looking at me with that one judgy eyeball. "From now on, take Steve with you when you go driving."  
  
" _Steve_? Does Steve even have a license of his own?"  
  
"He used to." Fury adds, a moment later, "In the 1940s."  
  
"Oh, great. So your idea of an experienced driver is someone who knows his way best around a horse and buggy."  
  
"Yeah, horse and buggy. In the 1940s. You sure you're not failing that industrial history class of yours?" Fury smirks and returns his attention to his paperwork. "Look, if you don't take him with you when you go driving from now on, I'm putting the convertible on permanent lockdown and that's that. Now get the hell out of here."  
  
After that, I suppose I'm dismissed from Fury's sight, which would be annoying if I didn't already want to leave so badly. I do need to pick up some supplies, though, so I go and find Steve, who's in the gym as usual, beating the living crap out of a punching bag. Luckily for me, Steve has nothing better to do, so he can take up space in my car all afternoon and bore me to tears. I make my way down the stairs two at a time, making sure I'm loud enough to distract him.  
  
"How's it going, Rogers? Trying to grow a new layer of muscles?"  
  
"Just passing the time," he says. He's sweaty as hell, but even his sweat is perfect. He's actually, like, glistening. It's so obnoxious. "You want something, don't you?"  
  
I try to look as innocent as possible. "Why would you say that?"  
  
"Because you would never willingly come down here and talk to me unless you needed something."  
  
"You, my bulgy friend, are very perceptive," I say. I poke his bicep and he frowns. "I need you to sit in my car next to me while I drive over to Lowe's. Not so much because I value your company, but because Fury threatened to take my car away if I don't bring you along with me. Despite the fact that you haven't driven a car in eons, you are somehow the more experienced one behind the wheel, in his mind."  
  
Steve shrugs and wipes himself down with a towel. "I'm sure he's right. Yeah, I could go for a drive. Let's go."  
  
And, shock of the century, Steve is unbearable once we're in the car. A total backseat driver. He keeps distracting me, ranting and raving about pesky crap like traffic lights and signs. As if any of those things are of my concern.  
  
"Maybe I haven't driven in a while, but I'm pretty sure they still put those speed limits signs up for a reason, Tony."  
  
"You know, you are really messing with my concentration, here. How am I supposed to pay attention to the _road_ if you want me to look at all these _signs_? You realize how ridiculous you sound right now."  
  
"Just slow down, okay? Try to give at least one less pedestrian a heart attack today. For me?"  
  
"Hmmm." I give Steve the side-eye for that one but I can't help but smile. I will try. For him. But I'm not going to tell him that. "Let's talk about something else," I say instead. "How are the Tree Huggers Anonymous meetings going?"  
  
Steve brightens when I mention his favorite extracurricular activity. When he first arrived on campus, he got pressured from all sides to join a politically affiliated group, but it wouldn't have been a good idea. Captain America can't just go around pledging his allegiance to one political party in a two-party system. The other party would never hear the end of it, and the whole country would probably erupt in civil war. So, instead of joining the Young Republicans or Young Democrats, Steve got involved with some environmentalist group instead, figuring that no one party could argue with cleaning the oceans and combating global warming. (I've urged him never to watch C-SPAN. His head might explode.)  
  
"It's great! Though it's dismaying to learn just how badly we've wasted our natural resources over the past century."  
  
"Well, it's not exactly a 'we' situation. You were busy hanging out in the tundra. Not your fault."  
  
"It's all of our faults," Steve says sadly. I know I'm not going to cheer him up on this one. This is a guy who cried the first time he watched _An Inconvenient Truth_. And, yes, I said _the first time_.  
  
I drum my fingers against the steering wheel. "Yeah, well, don't get your hopes up, big guy. I know everyone loves you and all, but I don't think a PSA from Captain America on how we're hurting Mother Earth is going to change anyone's ways." Steve looks at me with a confused furrow of his brow, and I know he's dying to ask me what a PSA is.  
  
"People have more good in them than you think, Tony. Not everyone is one-hundred percent selfish all of the time. Except maybe you, I suppose."  
  
"OH!" I shout. I clutch my chest with one hand and feel the steady hum of the arc reactor. "You _wound_ me! Captain Lunkhead thinks I'm selfish! Well, I am just going to take my toys and go home. Good day to you, sir."  
  
"Keep both hands on the wheel," Steve says. Then he gives me a strange look—one that I've noticed he always wears when someone calls attention to the reactor. I don't know what he's thinking when he makes that face or what it means, but it's always made me vaguely uncomfortable. It goes away quickly, though, and then he looks at me with a renewed sense of disgust, which is more like it. "Honestly, Stark. I've never seen you do a selfless thing for another person, ever. And if you did, I think I might drop dead from shock."  
  
"Oh, Stevie. That'd be reason enough for me." I pause and then look at him over my sunglasses. "What I'm saying, by the way, is that I want you to drop dead. Or, I mean, you could, and that'd be swell. In case you didn't get that."  
  
"No, I got it," Steve grumbles.  
  
"You sure? You got it? I just wanna make sure we're on the same page here."  
  
I don't think anyone but me knows just how murderous Captain America can look, with the right motivation. Let me tell you, it's quite a sight to behold.  
  
*  
  
You're probably wondering about the arc reactor, now that I've mentioned it. I've never told Steve the story behind it, but he could totally sit down and Google it if he wanted to—if he knew how.  
  
It's not a big deal. Basically, when a filthy rich couple suddenly dies and leave behind an only child who is the heir to all of that couple's money, people are going to get ideas. Bad guy people. And I was maybe sorta involved in a hostage situation that ended in a police shootout and some well-placed shrapnel in my chest, right next to my heart. And Fury maybe sorta lives with me now because he and the other folks at S.H.I.E.L.D. took it upon themselves to decide that I needed someone to watch over me.  
  
Which I don't. Not really.  
  
But after an experience like that, you can imagine how difficult it can be, sleeping at night in a big house, all alone. So I don't mind if Fury stays. And I don't even mind when Steve hangs out, as brutal as he is. I like when there's activity in the mansion. And I like hearing other people's voices beside my own. JARVIS isn't a bad conversationalist—again, I programmed him that way—but let's face it; he doesn't count.  
  
Anyway, the reactor keeps me alive, keeps the shrapnel from piercing my heart. I designed it myself, which I think proved to S.H.I.E.L.D. once and for all that hey, yeah, I am as smart as my dad. Thanks, guys. Most of the time, I forget it's even there, like a tattoo or a piercing. And hey, the chicks dig it. It seems to make Steve antsy, though. If only it would keep him away permanently.  
  
What's really annoying, even more than his stupid face, is that I can't stop thinking about what he said in the car, even after a whole day.  
  
"Phil, would you call me selfish?" I ask Coulson at lunch. His expression is placid as he says,  
  
"Yes. Quite. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Because Steve is up my asshole about how I don't care enough about other people."  
  
He rolls his eyes. "No one will ever care about other people as much as Steve. He's Captain America. It's written into his job description."  
  
Just then, I spot Banner walking toward our lunch table and I grab my bag, pulling out the secret weapon I brought with me today.  
  
"Dr. Banner! Fancy seeing you here, in our fine cafeteria," I say. Banner exhales, already perturbed.  
  
"I do work here, you know."  
  
"That's what they tell me. Listen, my eyes were bigger than my stomach this morning and I brought this giant hoagie that I had in the fridge. There's seriously no way I'm going to be able to cram this down my gullet, so...why don't you take it?"  
  
Banner's eyes bug out a bit, which is totally warranted. It's one of Steve's hoagies that I swiped from the fridge and therefore, it is _ginormous_. I would really love to know what the hell the guy was eating back in the '40s, because there's no way we had approached this portion size as a society yet.  
  
"I couldn't," he says, squinting at me. "And not just because I feel awkward, taking a student's food, but also because it might very well be bigger than me."  
  
"Take it!" I insist, nudging it toward him. "It's just going to go to waste otherwise. And don't think I don't hear your stomach rumbling in class every day. We wouldn't want you to waste away."  
  
Coulson leans over and smiles. "Maybe you and Ms. Potts can share it. She loves sandwiches." He sounds so sure of himself and Banner and I both shoot him the same weirded-out look. He fidgets slightly under our stares. "What? It's basic intel."  
  
"Well, sure then. Maybe. Thanks, I guess."  
  
Banner hesitates and then takes the hoagie. Coulson and I fist bump under the table.  
  
"I think we should have given Potts that condom after all," I say.  
  
"Not in a million years would that ever be a good idea," Coulson replies.  
  
Still, though, when we get a gander at Banner and Potts sitting on a bench later on, sharing that hoagie, I'm feeling like the train to Bonertown is well on its way out of the station. We hide behind a hedge and Coulson pulls out a pair of mini binoculars that he always carries on him—for more "intel," I guess. He assesses the situation and hums.  
  
"Lots of hair touching on Potts' part," he reports. "And collarbone touching. Banner is laughing. Legs crossed toward each other—that's an unequivocal sex invite."  
  
"And how would you know that?"  
  
Coulson folds up the binoculars and puts them away. "It's my job to know."  
  
"You don't have a job."  
  
"Either way. Mission accomplished."  
  
"We fucking rule," I say, grinning. I feel good, I really do. And not just because my debate grade is going to skyrocket as soon as Banner gives Potts a deep dicking, but because I did something good. Something _selfless_ , to help other people. Two miserable, lonely people, who are going to have really bizarre Hulk sex with each other. Hell, I'd watch that sex tape.  
  
Needless to say, Coulson and I become the school heroes. Our plan pays off in spades, and almost immediately. Banner is a fucking _delight_ and Potts starts putting happy face stickers on our assignments and drifting off in the middle of class, likely thinking about that big zucchini cock. My report card, too, experiences a total rewrite. In fact, when I deposit it on Fury's desk, he looks so pleasantly surprised that I'm worried he's going to try and hug me.  
  
"How in the hell did you get Banner to give you an A?"  
  
"I can be very persuasive," I say.  
  
Fury pushes the report card back at me. "You know what? Don't tell me. I don't wanna know. Unless you murdered someone."  
  
I splay my hands for him. "No blood, see?" Fury's glare is withering.  
  
"You know as well as I do that you'd be goddamn tidy about it."  
  
"I'll take that to mean you're proud of me. I hereby accept your accolade and would like to note, for the record, that I deserve every bit of it."  
  
"Okay, Stark," he says, nodding. There's the faintest trace of a smile on his face. "Take it that way, if you like."  
  
Huh. Real praise from Fury? Don't mind if I do. That shit is rarer than Halley's Comet. I wonder what Steve would have to say about _that_. Not that I care. But still, I bet he'd look particularly constipated, if he heard.  
  
"JARVIS," I say, after I get back to my lab. "Did you record that exchange?"  
  
"Yes, sir." I nod and pour myself a drink. A small one.  
  
"Transfer that footage into my personal file. And delete it off the main server."  
  
On second thought, I'll keep that moment for myself.  
  
*  
  
Doing good deeds isn't so bad, I decide. I could probably do a few more before I put myself at risk of turning into a total goober like Steve. I'm still feeling pretty good about myself by the time I go to school the next day. Even gym class doesn't seem as bad as it normally does. Hill is trying to get us to play volleyball, the most asinine sport of all. I can't risk hurting my wrists when I have so much important work to do in the lab. I stand against the wall with Coulson and we both try to look as busy as possible on our smartphones. He's probably texting Clint. Either that or plotting something intricate and top secret. I never know with him.  
  
"STARK!" Hill yells. "Get your behind over here and serve the goddamn ball!"  
  
"Coach Hill, the reactor, remember? Very delicate. Plus, this isn't exactly a decent application of my skills. I'm more of a spectator when it comes to sports than a participant. I'm a lover, not a fighter. And if the fight in question involves volleyball, so be it."  
  
Hill's hands move to her hips as she barks at me. "It's just one serve, Stark. If you don't get over here and 'apply your skills' to this ball, you're getting an F for the day."  
  
"Go on, Tony," Darcy calls, smirking at me. "Apply your _ball skills_."  
  
"Thanks, but I have enough balls coming toward me on a regular basis," I say, deflecting the comment easily. Most everyone laughs and Darcy flips me off. Coulson just shakes his head as if I've sorely disappointed him with my terrible jokes. Nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
And then, all at once, everyone goes quiet. At first I think it's because the principal is here, but then I see that he's leading this bewildered dude through the gymnasium, and that's the real attraction here. The guy looks as though he tripped and fell out of a bus heading to a sci-fi convention somewhere. He's tall and broad, almost as big as Steve, with long, flowing blond hair and a...metal chest plate? Not to mention a helmet. With wings on it. He's also holding onto an over-sized hammer, dragging it around like a security blanket. He looks toward the class, clearly nervous, and we all stare back at him, this random sideshow freak who wandered into our lives.  
  
Guys, it's kind of beautiful.  
  
"New student, Coach Hill. Class, this is Thor Odinson. Make him feel welcome."  
  
"What in the ever-loving _hell_ ," Coulson murmurs.  
  
"I know," I whisper back. "This is my new favorite day ever."  
  
Hill looks Thor up and down and scoffs. "You'll sit today out, Thor. You certainly can't play volleyball in those clothes."  
  
"He could pillage Scandinavia in those clothes," Darcy teases.  
  
"Idea," I say to Coulson, while everyone else is still giggling. "We need to adopt him."  
  
"Are you kidding me? He looks like he just got released from the insane asylum. My stock would _plummet_. More so than it already has from hanging out with you."  
  
"You wound me, Phil, you really do. Hey, you, c'mere!" I stage whisper to the big guy. He still looks spooked but I see some relief in his eyes, now that someone is actually talking to him. He walks over and when I extend my hand for a shake, he smiles widely and takes it. Damn, the guy's grip is strong. I can feel my bones crunching together. "Thor, buddy, good to meet you," I say, between clenched teeth. Coulson just looks between us with a resigned expression.  
  
"I am grateful for this gracious welcome," Thor booms. His voice echoes off the walls of the gymnasium and most of the other kids turn around in alarm. Some of them start laughing again. Somehow, I manage not to cringe.  
  
"Inside voice might be your best bet when we're in the gym," I say. Thor looks confused but he smiles and nods.  
  
"Nice armor," Coulson says, taking a more thorough look at Thor's outfit. "You're into cosplay, I gather?"  
  
"I am not familiar with this sort of play. It is not common in my home realm of Asgard."  
  
"Is that in upstate New York?" I ask, glancing at Coulson. He pinches the bridge of his nose.  
  
"Let's just go to lunch."  
  
Thor lifts his hammer, obviously loving that idea. "YES! Let us leave this place to feast on succulent, wild game!"  
  
"I'm pretty sure today is Taco Tuesday," Coulson says flatly.  
  
"Tell me more of this 'taco' and how it has earned itself an entire day! I wish to know!"  
  
Coulson could not hate me more right now if he tried. There's a stabby look in his eyes as Thor flings his arm around Coulson's shoulders and leads him out of the gym. He looks back at me and mouths _I hate you, dickwad_ and that puts a little extra skip in my step. Making friends is ever so much fun.  
  
*  
  
We decide to show Thor the ropes here at Avengers Academy. Or, well, I decide. Coulson just comes along.  
  
"That's the Fantastic Four," I say, pointing to the group sitting under a nearby tree. "That's what they call themselves. More like the Fail-tastic Four. They live in a complete fantasyland, so don't even bother with them. And those freaks over there are the X-Men. They're mutants and they have this wicked dumb rivalry with another group of mutants, but the leaders seem to be totally in love with each other? It's all very Sharks vs. Jets."  
  
"I would enjoy such entertainment as a battle between a shark and a jet," Thor says.  
  
"Wouldn't we all! Oh, and there's Loki in the green blazer, and some of the other popular guys. Us excluded, of course." Thor seems to get a little distracted when he looks over at Loki, so I nudge his side and motion to Clint. "And hey, there's Coulson's boyfriend."  
  
"Tony," Coulson says warningly. He gets a little freaked out when I talk about his relationship with Clint in front of other people, but it's hardly a secret. Also, most of the people at this school are totally fine with it, and Thor seems to be no exception. He claps Coulson on the back with a force that sends him stumbling.  
  
"He looks to be a fine warrior of hearty stock. I approve, son of Coul!"  
  
"Great, because I was seeking your approval, clearly," Coulson says, straightening his tie.  
  
"And which one is your mate, Tony Stark?"  
  
"My _mate_? I'm a Stark, buddy. We don't take mates. We wander around the shop and take our time, sampling the goods."  
  
"Tony isn't much for commitment," Coulson says dryly. I shrug and run my fingers over my goatee.  
  
"What can I say? I like to keep my options open. I'm pro-choice, in more ways than one."  
  
Coulson's about to verbally bitchslap me for that one, I can tell. But just then, Clint comes sauntering over in what has to be a tank top he picked up from the juniors' section at Kohl's, and steps up to Coulson. Aaaaand it's on.  
  
"Baby, lend me five dollars."  
  
"Barton, I have repeatedly asked you not to call me that."  
  
Clint rolls his eyes, exasperated. "Excuse me, _Ms. Coulson_."  
  
The words are barely out of Clint's mouth when Coulson grabs him by the hair, spins him around, and puts him in a chokehold. These two are kinky with a capital K. Damn.  
  
"Try that one more time, Barton," Coulson says coolly, totally unfazed by all the whining and coughing and twitching his boyfriend is doing.  
  
"Mr. Coulson!" he sputters. " _Agent_ C-Coulson!"  
  
Coulson lets him go. "You need to work on your reaction time, Barton."  
  
A beat passes before they simultaneously draw weapons on each other—Barton, his trusty bow and arrow, and Coulson, his stun gun that his dad is letting him carry around until he's old enough to get a gun license.  
  
"This is how they flirt," I whisper to Thor.  
  
"I am impressed by your courtship rituals," he says. "I wish to learn more. But first, I must procure several more tacos."  
  
"Go get 'em, buddy."  
  
Thor takes off and when I look back at Clint and Coulson, they're making out like animals, right in the middle of the student pathway, weapons tossed to the side. Everyone just walks around them, easy as you please, like they're not even there. I told you guys they were dramatic.  
   
*  
   
"Hey, Phil," I say, pulling out the straw from my soda. "Do you think you could kill someone with this? Just this?"  
  
Coulson considers the plastic and tilts his head back and forth. "I could probably come up with something in a pinch."  
  
"I have the utmost faith in you."  
  
I'm two bites into my sandwich when Thor comes bounding over, cafeteria tray in hand. There's so much food piled on, I'm surprised the tray doesn't buckle under its weight.  
  
"I have made the acquaintance of a young woman with boundless spirit!" he declares.  
  
"No kidding," Coulson says, raising an eyebrow.  
  
"Boundless spirit?" I repeat. "I hope that's code for hot."  
  
"Her beauty is immeasurable as well." Thor looks around and points toward the grass. "There she is!" he booms. He's so loud that the girl in question turns and waves sheepishly. The guy is as discrete as a Mack truck.  
  
Bummer of all bummers, it's Jane Foster. Coulson and I look at each other and the disappointment is palpable.  
  
"Thor, how old are you?" I ask.  
  
"I ceased keeping count after three thousand years of age. However, for the purposes of this realm, I am sixteen and a half."  
  
I tap my chin with my forefinger and decide to ignore the obvious. "Well, I just turned seventeen, so let me give you some advice as a pseudo-elder. It's one thing to take an interest in science and math—this _is_ a school for overachievers, after all—but you've gotta have some style while you do it or you're never gonna survive out there in the big leagues."  
  
"She's a dud," Coulson clarifies. He shrugs at Thor. "Keeps to herself, doesn't get out much. Not worth your time."  
  
Thor frowns at us, still looking at Jane as she sits under a tree and writes furiously in that thick journal of hers. "Perhaps she is in need of a friend."  
  
"Trust me, big guy. She doesn't want any friends and that much is clear. You'd only be keeping her from hours and hours of sitting in the library, collecting dust. And people would judge." My eyes roam over the chest plate and cape one more time. "Though it may be a bit too late for that."  
  
"Who DARES to judge me?" Thor bangs his fist on the table, making all the trays and drinks jump. "Bring him to me at once so I may confront him, face to face!" Coulson's tater tots spill from his plate and he looks at them mournfully, the saddest little soldier.  
  
"Five second rule," I remind him. Then I give Thor the most placating smile I can muster. "Never mind, buddy. You know what? Phil and I are going to help you out in the style department. You in?"  
  
"I only wear suits," Coulson says. "And I don't think any of them are big enough for him."  
  
"There's always the mall. We'll figure something out. What do you say, Odinson, you in?"  
  
Thor looks skeptical for a moment, but then he nods and gives us the brightest, bubbliest smile I've ever seen. "I wish to acclimate well to your world, and thus, I accept your generous offer. Tony Stark and Son of Coul, I will return to Asgard one day and tell tales of your friendship and kindness. We will hold feasts in your honor and make great merriment!"  
  
"Sounds awesome," I say. "Can I come?"  
  
Thor laughs and eats half of a cheeseburger in one bite. "No."  
  
*  
  
The makeover actually goes pretty well. There's one uncomfortable moment where I approach Thor with a razor and he smacks me halfway across the room. The guy is clearly attached to his facial hair, which I totally understand. It look a long time to get my goatee to its current state of glory. Thor finally agrees to a trim, so we leave him with a bit of scruff and keep the long hair, since it suits him. The armor, though, is another story. Considering that Coulson only wears suits, he and JARVIS find some pretty snappy outfits for Thor to wear. I advocate for lots of tight T-shirts that show off the amazing 48-pack he's got going on under that chest plate, but I'm overruled in favor of tasteful button-downs and slim-fitting dark jeans.  
  
By the time we're done, Thor Odinson is a first-class, bona fide studmuffin. He can't stop admiring himself in the mirror, which is good, because it gives me ample time to ogle him while he's distracted. Coulson smacks me on the back of the head when I stare too long and Thor laughs, spotting it in the mirror. We've learned that he finds light violence _hilarious_.  
  
After we're done, Coulson goes home to either boink Barton or iron his ties, I don't know, and I invite Thor down to my lab. I give him a gander at the suit I'm making—the one that's going to self-propel and allow me to do loop-de-loops over Long Island.  
  
"You wish to fly?" Thor asks. He runs his fingers over the red metal and frowns. "This science seems unnatural."  
  
"You'd prefer I grew wings?"  
  
"Perhaps humans were not meant to have such powers."  
  
"Oh, come on, Thor," I scoff, twirling a wrench between my fingers. "Don't get preachy on me. I'm just tooling around down here for fun. They used to say we'd all fly to school with jet packs by now. And mine hasn't arrived in the mail yet, so why shouldn't I make one of my own?"  
  
Thor furrows his brow. "Perhaps it would be useful for a greater purpose. Something that could aid humankind."  
  
"Do what for the who now?" Somehow I didn't see it coming that Thor would be a cockeyed optimist. Maybe it comes with the territory when you're a three-thousand-year-old Norse god who spends his days eating wild boar legs, or so he's told me. There's also still the possibility that he's crazy, in which case, crazy probably goes hand in hand with happy. Not me, though. I'm the most jaded guy under twenty I know. I've learned to take pride in it. "I'm a teenaged genius billionaire playboy, not a philanthropist."  
  
"Perhaps you should be," Thor says, and I roll my eyes.  
  
"You remind me of this other top-heavy, mankind-loving freak of nature I know."  
  
Just then, Steve makes an entrance, giant hoagie in hand. "My ears are burning," he says. He gets Thor's attention immediately, but I'm not sure if it's Steve or the sandwich that has him curious.  
  
"Hello, golden boy. Thor, this is Steve, a.k.a. Captain America. Who I specifically told never to come wandering down into my laboratory without an express invitation."  
  
"You tell me lots of things." Steve nods to Thor, swallows his mouthful, and smiles. "Pleasure to meet you, Thor."  
  
"Indeed. May I inquire as to the origins of your sandwich?" Okay, so it _was_ the sandwich.  
  
Steve motions upstairs. "Kitchen fridge. There's a whole bunch of 'em. Just stocked up. Help yourself."  
  
"Thank you, friend," Thor says. He slaps Steve hard on the back and then bounds up the stairs.  
  
"That kind of hurt." Steve looks at me yet again, bewildered. "New school chum?"  
  
"First of all, you'd better be charging those monstrosities you call sandwiches to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s expense account and _not_ Stark Industries. And secondly, yes. He's a lost soul who thinks he's a Norse god and he needed a severe push in the direction of the 21st century. Kind of like someone else I know." I sit on my workbench and give him a smug smile. "Impressed?"  
  
"That you've somehow convinced this poor, clueless lug that you're some kind of role model? Yes, extremely."  
  
Steve sits down next to me, plate and all, and I swat his arm. "If you get mayo on my tools, I will find a way to fold you in half and stick you back in the freezer where you belong, Captain Cold Sore. And I am helping Thor out big time, okay? This is my selfless act! Without me, he'd still be wandering around the academy, dragging his lucky hammer behind him, looking like he just got off the shuttle bus from DragonCon."  
  
"I don't know what that is, but what I _do_ know is that there's no way this is a selfless act, Tony. You can call it that, but you're treating that guy like another one of your lab experiments, not helping him. You're only doing it for personal gain, just like everything else."  
  
"You would like that, wouldn't you, Cap? If I never changed a bit? You probably cling to stuff like that, seeing as how everything you used to know is nothing but a bunch of relics now."  
  
It's hitting below the belt, I know. But I can't help it with Steve; the guy just rubs me in all the wrong ways. I prefer people who rub me the right way. In fact, that's pretty much my life philosophy. He gives me a look that veers between furious and butt-hurt, mostly the latter. It occurs to me that I should probably apologize but then Thor comes back downstairs, hoagie in hand, and the moment passes. I go back to my tools and turn away from Steve.  
  
"Thank you for the sandwich, Captain," Thor says. "I am most grateful. You will stay and dine with us?"  
  
"Actually, I was just leaving. But you're welcome. And call me Steve."  
  
With that, Steve picks up his plate and slinks off, good riddance. Thor takes his place beside me and happily goes to town on his hoagie, oblivious to all the previous tension in the room.  
  
"Okay, I give up," I say. I dig into my pocket for my phone and open up Instagram. "This is too good not to document. Smile."  
  
And Thor does, with a mouth full of half-chewed turkey and roast beef, his lips smeared with mayo. I really hope this photo goes viral.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I know how important your social life is to you. You might not like having a—a big brother type around."_
> 
> _"Steve, you are not my brother," I say, with all the horror I can muster. "You are the oversized, Aryan galumph they fished out of the ice and then brought to my house, to eat all the food in my fridge and then some."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part contains varying shades of a handful of minor pairings: Tony/Loki, Steve/Bucky, Tony/Natasha, etc. Also brief instances of post-traumatic stress.

The next day at school, everyone—and I mean _everyone_ —is talking about Hottie McHotterson, formerly known as Thor Odinson or That Weird Guy in the Cape. All eyes are on him as we walk down the main pathway to school and Thor's totally eating it up, flashing a brilliant smile to every girl and guy who waves or swoons as he strides past.

"We have the magic touch, Agent Coulson," I tell him. "Just look at this bitch strut."

"I know, I'm kvelling," he says, with a completely straight face. It's moments like this when I realize I truly love him.

"Thor! Thor!" someone calls out. A girl with giant coke-bottle glasses runs up to Thor to hand him a neon flyer, then quickly scurries away again. I take the opportunity to snatch the paper out of his hand. I know he's big man on campus today but how the hell is he getting handed flyers and I'm not?

"A party, huh. The nerds are throwing a party, guys."

"I enjoy a good, raucous celebration!"

Coulson scans the page quickly. "It might be fun. The science geeks tend to throw great parties. They work hard; they play hard. And they make their own everclear."

"Do you imagine Jane will be in attendance?" Thor asks, looking between us hopefully.

"Listen, enough about Jane already," I say. "You're officially the most interesting guy in this hellhole. You're hot, you're mysterious...you could have anyone you want. Why settle?"

"Loki is single now," Coulson suggests.

"Single best idea _ever_ ," I say, pointing at him. "Holy shit. You guys would be the hottest couple in the entire school. Even _I_ would be jealous. You might have to let me join in a threesome. At least one. One little threesome."

Thor squints at us but I can tell he's intrigued. "Yes, Loki. You pointed him out the other day. I know of him well."

I look between the other two in surprise. "Wait, you do? How?"

"Our fathers are enemies. Growing up, we were forbidden to ever consort." He squints and looks around at all of the other kids roaming around the grass. "It has puzzled me, since I first saw him, why he has come to reside in Midgard."

"Thor," I sigh. "I keep telling you, this is _Long Island_."

"I'll admit, he's one of our more attractive classmates," Coulson says. "Kind of a raging dick. But attractive."

"Yes, I have heard many tales of his dickishness," Thor says.

"No, you know what? I like this. I like it a lot. It's just like the Montagues and Capulets! Forbidden love, guaranteed to piss off some overbearing parents!"

"How?" Coulson butts in. "How is _Romeo and Juliet_ something worth emulating? Did you forget the part at the end where they _die_? Or have you actually been asleep in English class for the past three years?"

I turn and walk backwards, grinning at Thor, who's looking more and more interested by the second. "Whatever, this'll be great. Loki is a pal of mine. And I happen to know that he was scoping you out. I believe his words were, 'Who is that studly blond guy with the rippling biceps and why aren't we doing it yet?'"

It's unreal, but Thor actually _blushes_ at that. I'm grateful that Coulson is also there as a witness because no one would ever believe me otherwise. I'm not too subtle about planting the seed but it doesn't matter because soon enough, Thor is close to sporting over a stiffy over a guy he's never even met. He's in the middle of writing Loki an "epic poem of passion in a time of great strife" during lunch when Coulson nudges my shoulder and leans close.

"So you're a matchmaker now, too? For all we know, Loki doesn't even know Thor exists. Or he does, and he won't be interested because of family histories that are _none of our business_."

"Details. Loki won't know what hit him when he meets this guy. I got this, Phyllis."

Coulson narrows his eyes and holds up his spork. "I'm still working on the straw, but I definitely know how to murder your ass with _this_."

"I'm aroused and piqued. A dash of terrified for flavor."

"I don't need another reason to stab things," he says. "So don't give me one."

That day after school, we go out for pizza with Loki, Clint, Darcy, and the rest of our little gang. Loki seems entirely unimpressed with Thor, but Darcy is fascinated by the amount of food he's capable of consuming. When Loki does regard Thor, his expression is cool and distant with a touch of amusement. But then again, Loki looks at everyone that way—like he's mentally taking stock of the amount of acceptable humiliation that can be hurled at said person.

"So, what do you think?" I ask Loki, when we're sitting together. In another booth, Darcy and Clint are videotaping Thor as he tries to eat as many slices of pizza as possible, the result of a bet no one has a chance in hell of winning. Coulson just stands there and shakes his head, pressing his palm to his forehead, which is pretty much his default position.

Loki sips his soda slowly. "Of this brash and boisterous creature?" he asks. He pauses and smiles slowly. "He is...intriguing."

"Intriguing, yes." Exactly the reaction I was hoping for. I pluck a piece of pepperoni from my slice and eat it. "And not bad to look at either, right? The guy has muscles on top of muscles."

Loki's eyes seem to follow my fingers as I lick away the lingering grease, but then he glances back at Thor and smiles. "I admit the view is quite pleasant from here."

"Well, let me know if you want me to pencil you in. Not to brag, but I do have access to the man's Google calendar, seeing as how I created it, and it's filling up pretty fast. So if you want a piece, you need to get in on the ground floor here, Laufeyson."

Loki tilts his chin up and gives me another calculating stare. "You seem very invested in him, Stark. What's in it for you?"

That gives me pause. Yet another person who thinks I'm doing something nice for my own dastardly purposes. I hadn't realized my reputation had gotten so low. Makes me wonder if Steve is coming around the school and handing out "Don't Trust Tony Stark" pamphlets or something. An email blast or online petition seems too advanced for him.

"Just being a good friend," I say, trying not to sound defensive. "He's a great guy. Once you get past all the constant eating."

"Yes, the eating." Loki looks down for a moment, the gears clearly turning, though I can't quite tell what he's thinking. "Darcy," he calls out suddenly. "Send me that video when you're done."

Hey! Progress! It's a good sign. I give Thor a thumbs-up from across the room when no one else is looking. He smiles back at me, right before he slides almost an entire slice of pizza down his gullet. Loki bites his lip and crosses his legs.

The cunning mating rituals of the Scandinavian man-beast. Peculiar, yet effective.

*

Fury tries to force us into a pseudo "family dinner" a few nights later but he gets distracted by...I dunno, aliens hanging off the Seattle Space Needle or something. So Thor and I decide to make a cameo at the nerd party instead. It's in Queens, which is sort of out of the way, but Clint claims to know how to get there. That doesn't stop Coulson from being a backseat driver, as usual.

"Google Maps is telling me that the Long Island Expressway would be faster than the Grand Central."

"They both go to the Cross Island, okay? I know what I'm doing here. Just tell me the exit number."

Coulson sighs and crosses his arms. "Why should I? You know what you're doing."

"Phil, don't start."

"No, no, clearly you're smarter than Google Maps. I'm just going to shut my eyes and I know that when I open them again, I'll be at the party with a drink in my hand because you're just _that_ _good_ , Clinton."

Clint grips the steering wheel with both hands, the veins in his arms bulging as he grunts in frustration. Thor looks between them and smirks.

"You people are so petty. And tiny."

"Who you calling tiny?" Clint says, whipping his head around. He steers the car with one hand as he gives Thor a death glare. "Do not fuck with the driver. I will plow this car into a _tree_."

Meanwhile, Coulson is just sitting there, cool as a cucumber. "Phil, you get your panties in a bunch when I miss a stop sign, but you don't mind _this_?"

"He's got good aim," Coulson says mildly. "And I can assure you both, he's _not_ tiny."

"Okay, I officially need all the alcohol," I mutter.

When we finally, thankfully get to the party, Clint and Coulson head off somewhere, likely to bone in someone's bedroom closet. I sling an arm around Thor's broad shoulders and pull him close.

"So, listen, big guy," I say. "Don't come on too strong with Loki, okay? Make sure he sees you and gets a nice look at the goods, but don't say hi first. He's pretty aloof so you need to out-aloof him."

"Out-aloof," Thor repeats, his brow furrowed in severe concentration.

"Right. Don't be afraid to show off, though. Do whatever it takes to get his motor running. Toss that golden mane around. Feel free to go down on some phallic-looking foodstuffs in his line of sight."

"I will endeavor to do so."

"Hey, Thor!" we suddenly hear. Jane waves frantically, standing on the lawn. She's surrounded by a bunch of fellow nerds and some intense stargazing equipment. "We're charting constellations! Want to join us?"

I reach up and slap my hand over Thor's mouth before he can respond. "Sorry, Thor has to wash his hair tonight. At the party. All the cool kids are doing it. Excuse us."

Thor makes a muffled noise of protest and punches me in the shoulder when we get inside the house. Man, that stings. "I do not appreciate your act of deception, Tony Stark."

"It doesn't have to be a lie. We can find a bathroom right now, if you want. But I'd rather drink. And mingle. And drink some more. Where's this everclear I've heard so much about?"

Turns out there's no everclear but rather an impressively large bowl of punch, with an impressively large amount of alcohol swimming inside it. I lean down to take a sniff and the overpowering scent of rum nearly singes my eyelashes. Jackpot. I use the ladle to give myself a large helping when, right on cue:

"Thor! Do you want some—oops!"

Jane knocks into my left side and I spill my extra-large helping of spiked punch all over my sneakers. My extremely expensive sneakers. My hand flies to my chest and I have to shut my eyes so as not to go all Bruce Banner on the girl.

"Okay, those were three-hundred dollar shoes. Do you own anything worth three-hundred dollars? Have you ever even _seen_ that much money in your life?"

"It was an accidental incident," Thor says. I ignore his put-upon frown in favor of glaring at Jane. She cringes and babbles her way through an apology.

"I'm so sorry, Tony! Oh, god. Those _are_ really nice shoes. I'm sorry."

"Problem?" Loki says, sidling up to us. He has his hands behind his back and the usual mischievous look in his eyes. Thor lights up immediately.

"Loki! You are looking dashing tonight," he says. Loki just smiles, while Jane bites her lip and slinks away. I'd feel bad for her, but whatever, she owes me hundreds of dollars.

Darcy walks up to us, waving a playing card. I can see it's a joker. "Hey, everyone! Let's play Suck and Blow."

Suck and Blow is a simple game, really, a favorite of these simple folks. You keep the playing card afloat by sucking in air so it stays against your lips, until you pass it to the next person. I'm not nearly drunk enough for it and I'm still pissed about my shoes, but I try to be a team player. Darcy passes the card to Thor, who eagerly passes it to Loki, and then it's bestowed upon me. When I turn around to approach the next person, Loki is suddenly there again. My lips part in surprise, the card falls, and Loki's mouth descends upon mine.

It's not awful, I'll tell you that much. Still, I push him away, all too aware that Thor is watching. Loki laughs like a hyena.

"God, Loki, can't you _suck_?" I say in a huff.

He grins wolfishly at me. "I can, and very well at that. Thank you for asking."

I'm still wondering how in the hell Loki got from point A to point B so quickly, when I suddenly hear a loud string of expletives from another room. "Phil," I say, turning away from Loki and the very distracting, pale line of his throat.

"How can you tell?" Thor asks.

"No one else I know curses that loudly and that creatively," I say, dragging him along with me. "It's his special gift."

We find him in the bathroom, hovering over Clint, who appears to have a new, shiny metal hoop hanging off his left eyebrow. It's not an improvement. Coulson's arms are folded over his chest and he looks like he's going to pop, gesturing at Clint in clipped, fleeting movements.

"How could you do this to yourself? You look like an extra from an Avril Lavigne video. You look like 1997 hocked a lugie onto your face. S.H.I.E.L.D. is never going to accept you with that thing!"

"Phil, we're still in high school. S.H.I.E.L.D. is a long time away! Plus, Sitwell has one. Isn't it cool?"

"Sitwell isn't the one who has to look at your ugly ass all day."

Clint growls at that and goes for his bow, which Coulson neatly kicks out of his grasp. Everyone around them scatters as they go tumbling to the floor, wrapped up in each other. The resulting chaos is fun to watch for like, two seconds, but then I make a point of leading Thor away.

"We should go. They'll be humping like jacked-up bunnies on that floor in about fifteen seconds."

"This sounds promising," Thor says. He immediately turns back toward the bathroom and I have to drag him away, both arms around his tree trunk of a waist. "I wish to observe your coital rituals!"

*

After a while, I'm _delightfully_ buzzed off that spiked punch and I don't even care that much that my shoes are still ruined, or that Coulson and Clint tried to steal everyone's thunder with that gross spectacle in the bathroom. I do seem to have lost track of Thor, however, which is difficult to do, considering that he's the size of Mount Everest. It's a real kick in the ass when I do find him and he's talking to Jane, of all people, as opposed to the guy he's _supposed_ to be going after. Clearly, I have to do everything around here. I stalk over to where they're standing and hear a bit of their scintillating conversation.

"This drink is good. I like it." Thor holds up his cup, now empty of punch, and then flings it behind him. "I must procure another."

"You know, it's better for the environment if you recycle," Jane says.

"Whose environment?"

"Well, you know, like...the whole planet."

"My only wish is for Midgard to be safe," Thor says, very seriously. "Therefore, I will 'recycle,' as you say, for the sake of protecting this realm. And anyone who does not will answer to my hammer."

"Thor!" I say, gripping his shoulder. "Good buddy, old pal. The environment can wait; it's lasted this long. Come with me."

I guide Thor away from that inane and utterly confusing conversation and point him toward the new and improved object of his affection, Mr. Loki Laufeyson. The guy is charming the pants off a small group gathered around him, his hair and teeth gleaming in the light. He's waving around that golden walking stick he sometimes carries around with him. He probably picked it up at an antique or consignment shop in Brooklyn, the pretentious asshole.

I don't quite expect it when Thor leaves my side and barrels toward Loki, shouting his name in excitement. Loki doesn't seem to expect it, either. He's in the middle of telling a story, still gesturing, when he whips around in surprise and brains Thor with the walking stick, right in the forehead.

If a brick shit house falls to the floor in the middle of a party and everyone is watching, does he make a sound? Yes. That sound is _thud_.

Somehow, Loki and I wrangle Thor into an armchair. I wave Jane away when she tries to help. She's ninety pounds soaking wet, so let's face it; she isn't going to be of much use when dealing with the dead weight of an over-sized golden retriever that's just been clubbed in the head.

"What the fuck was that?" I ask Loki. "You could put someone's eye out with that thing!"

"He startled me," he replies calmly, brushing his hair back.

"He could have a concussion. Keep him conscious, whatever you do. Because I am so not in the mood to go to the hospital today. Or ever."

Loki pauses, his gaze flickering over Thor's body. "He'll be fine."

"And how do you know that?"

But Loki is right. Thor blinks and shakes off the blow instantaneously, his eyes clearing. He doesn't have a bump on his forehead or even any light bruising. He's totally fine. The two of them exchange this weird look that I don't quite get—which is odd, because I'm a master at reading other people, most of the time—and they clasp each other's wrists like old comrades in arms.

"You're well now?" Loki asks.

"Indeed."

"You're quite sure? Can you do this?" And then he fucking sings along with the music playing, cupping his hands together and fluttering his fingers: " _Hands up, they're playing my song, the butterflies fly away_?"

Thor blinks and fumbles to mirror him, clapping his hands together. " _Butterflies fly away_ ," he repeats, off-key.

And...I can't, you guys. I just fucking can't. Because, honestly. _What_.

But hey, whatever. The way I see it, I'm one hell of a humanitarian here, between what I did for Banner and Potts and now Thor and Loki. I'm like Cupid, except I leave the bow and arrow stuff to Clint because it's dumb. I let the two lovebirds have their moment and head to the backyard, taking in the splendor of the debauched nerd party, complete with future leaders of the free world dry humping on lounge chairs and barfing their dinners into the hot tub. In a way, it's a beautiful sight. Maybe a little disconcerting if you think about these people with their fingers on the panic button one day, but I try not to.

Suddenly my phone buzzes in my pocket. When I look at the display, my buzz is completely shot to hell.

"Good evening, Cyclops," I answer.

"Stark. Do you have any idea in your fool head what time it is?"

"I said 'good _evening_ ,' didn't I?"

"You'd better get your dumb ass back to the mansion right now. I expect to see you through the surveillance cameras, walking through the front door in a half hour, tops. If not, I'll have JARVIS put a security code on your bedroom door that even _you_ can't break, boy genius."

 _Who the fuck are you, my dad?_ I want to say. I roll my eyes and squelch the urge. "Hate to break it to you, Nicholas, but it's probably gonna take a skosh longer than that. I'm a very busy man. Got a lot on my plate right now. Sorry to disappoint."

"Disappoint my ass. Come home right now or _else_."

He hangs up abruptly and I smirk at the phone. _Disappoint my ass_? What does that even mean? I glance up at a sudden loud noise and spy a police chopper overhead. Someone starts yelling through a megaphone that we should all vacate the property immediately or be subject to arrest. I figure it's a good of a sign as any that it's time to leave. It's not at all because of Fury's ultimatum. Not even a little bit. I'd kinda love to see his face if he had to post bail for me, but I'm sure there'll be plenty of future opportunities for that.

*

I'm not quite sure how it happens, but somehow I end up getting a ride home from Loki. Clint and Coulson are still off together somewhere, soiling other people's belongings, so they can't take me, and try as I might to foist Thor upon Loki, apparently they live nowhere near each other. I actually had no idea where Thor lived before tonight. I think I was expecting it to be under a bridge somewhere.

Loki's driving and humming along to that godforsaken "Somebody I Used to Know" song playing on his iPod, which, I swear to god, will be in my head for a week as a result. He keeps giving me these indulgent smiles and it's creeping me out. It's like there's a joke that I'm not in on. Though, granted, that's how Loki always looks.

"Sooooo," I say, with the urge to actually twiddle my thumbs. "Thor Odinson. Dude is smokin', am I right?"

Loki just smirks at me. " _But you didn't have to cut me off_ ," he sings. I've never wanted to smack him more.

"Please, I'm begging you, put on some music that doesn't make me want to stick needles into my eyeballs. I'm trying to have a conversation with you about Thor."

"What about him?" Loki asks. He looks bored by the subject matter, which is definitely a change from earlier, when he and Thor were making eyes at each other.

"I thought you two made a connection tonight."

Loki glances at me again and pushes a button on his steering wheel, changing the music. Thank fuck. "You're a loyal friend, Tony," he says. I'm not sure where that came from but I go with it.

"Well, you and Thor are both great guys and you'd make a blisteringly hot couple, so I figured, why not help?"

Now, that seems to catch his interest. "So, you find me attractive?"

"Well, sure. I mean, I'd have to be dead not to—"

There's a loud screech of the car's tires as Loki veers to the side of the road, and I grab the dashboard as if it's going to stop me from hurtling through the windshield. I'm so distracted by sheer panic that it takes me a second to realize that I've got a lap full of Loki and he's kissing me and…and, oh my god, that _tongue_. His tongue is everywhere, skimming the backs of my teeth and the roof of my mouth and tangling with mine in a way that awakens all of my natural _and_ unnatural urges. I think it might actually be growing longer in my mouth, if such a thing were possible. I grab Loki's arms, caught between pushing him away and pulling him closer. Then I remember the person who I originally wanted to be in this position: Thor.

"Loki," I gasp, pulling away. "Seriously, what the fuck?"

"I knew it, Stark," he purrs. He nuzzles—yes, _nuzzles_ my jaw, and runs his hands over my chest, trailing his fingertips over the outline of the reactor. "I knew you were only attempting to distract yourself from your true desires."

"Granted, I desire a lot of things and a lot of people, but this _really_ isn't what I had in mind."

"Nonsense. I could feel your urges when you kissed me."

"Suck and Blow is a _game_ , Loki."

"Indeed," he says with a grin. "Though I would much prefer to play my version of it."

Loki's hand dips between my legs and ooookay, yeah, this game is progressing very quickly. Maybe too quickly, but don't tell anyone I said so. I push him away, albeit reluctantly. Now he looks pissed.

"Why are you denying yourself of this?" he hisses. Then, he gets that mischievous gleam in his eyes. "Would you prefer if I took on a different, perhaps more pleasing form? Something like this?"

You guys, I shit you not—the guy shape-shifts, right there in the seat beside me. And suddenly, it's not Loki gazing at me; it's _Coulson_. I may or may not shriek like a girl and throw myself back against the passenger side door.

"Jesus, god, NO!" I shout. But Loki—Coulson— _whoever_ , leans toward me and runs a finger down my chest, making me freeze in place.

"Are you quite sure? You two seem awfully close."

"Okay, first of all, how did you do that? Secondly, holy god, _no_. I love Phil; don't get me wrong. But no, never, not in a million years. Instant boner death."

Loki frowns at that and returns to his own form, which is a relief. Then he cups me through my jeans and squeezes. "On the contrary; it seems to be very much alive."

"It's CONFUSED!" I wriggle away from him again and huff. I'm starting to get annoyed by all the pushiness and magic tricks. Especially the pushiness. I'm Tony fucking Stark; no one bosses me around. "Look, I wasn't trying to hook you up with Thor to sabotage myself. I really thought you'd be a good couple!"

" _Thor_? Why would I ever consider such a preposterous idea? Don't you know who my father is?"

"Yeah, yeah, Thor told me all about how your dad and his dad don't get along."

"If you consider years of war and bloodshed 'not getting along,' then yes, _they do not get along_."

"War and…" I blink, swallowing hard. What the hell did I get myself into here, exactly? "But you were flirting with him!"

"I was flirting with _you_. You misinterpreted. Not as smart as you look, apparently." Loki tilts his chin up primly and looks away. "My father is Laufey, king of the Frost Giants. He and Odin have been at war for years. Thor and I have rarely crossed paths and when we did, he never saw me in this form. I never expected him to show up in Midgard but…here he is, in all his bumbling glory. Hooray," he adds sarcastically.

" _Frost Giants_? Okay, wait a minute, wait a minute." I throw my hands up and mentally fit together the puzzle pieces. Loki's jokes about conjuring things. The instant healing. Thor's armor and hammer, his booming declarations about realms and shit. "So, you mean to tell me that you're both actually _Norse gods_? Like, for realsies?"

"For realsies," Loki confirms. He tilts his head and grins. "Does that make my proposal more appealing?"

I hesitate because, hell, when am I ever going to get another offer to have sex with a god? Seems like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. On the other hand, this is all very unexpected and I'm creeped out as hell and I want to go home to my mean S.H.I.E.L.D. director and my talking artificial intelligence unit and other things that I can actually understand.

"Not really, no," I say with a shrug. "As nice as the tongue was. Sorry, big boy."

"Very well," Loki says mildly.

Then, with a flash of green light, I'm suddenly standing outside of the car, looking in on Loki. I blink and try to open the door, but it's locked. Loki, the unbearable sweetheart, laughs loudly, flips me the bird, and drives away.

Well, shit.

*

So, this is awesome. I'm stranded somewhere in the middle of Queens and there are zero cabs around. I can access JARVIS through my phone but I don’t know where the phone is; I must have left it in Loki's car. I walk down the road until I come across a gas station and find myself confronted by a device I've never seen: a payphone. I hadn't even known they still existed.

"How in the hell are you supposed to use this thing?" I mutter, picking up the receiver. Just hitting the buttons doesn't work. It takes a moment before I realize you need a quarter to get it to work. It's a miracle that I happen to have one in my pocket. I exhale and dial one of the only two phone numbers I know by heart.

"Steve Rogers speaking," he dutifully answers, after a number of rings. Steve still has trouble figuring out how to use his phone, even though we took him to a Verizon store and even had an employee explain the basics to him. _See the buttons that say Answer and Ignore?_ she'd asked him. _If you want to answer, press Answer_. It was like someone had turned on a light bulb in his head.

"Steve. Listen, um. It's Tony."

"Tony? Why aren't you calling me from your cellular telephone? I don't recognize this number."

I spare a moment to roll my eyes. "I sort of got abandoned by my designated driver. Was trying to set him up with someone and it turned out he wanted _me_ , which, you know. Can't blame him. But it went a bit too far and hey, he's actually a Norse god—did you know Norse gods are hanging out on Earth now? Because I had no idea. And I left my phone in his car and Fury is pissed at me and I can't access JARVIS and…" Oh, god. I take a shaky breath and realize how alone I am. Ever since the hostage incident, I'm not big on putting myself in vulnerable situations. I'm so far away from the city; I can actually see stars in the sky. Where the fuck _am_ I? I steel myself to do the one thing I swore I would never, ever do: ask Steve for help. "I just didn’t know who else to call."

"All right, Tony, I understand. I'll help you." Steve sounds like he's getting ready for battle, which is kind of cute. I have to stop myself from sighing in relief. "Where are you?" he asks.

"Um. Somewhere in Queens."

Steve makes a low, annoyed grunt. "Fantastic," he says.

It doesn't take him too long to find me, luckily. With a little coaching, he employs JARVIS in tracking the payphone's coordinates and then finds his way over with "the GPS location box." I've never been so happy to see the human popsicle in my life.

Weird thing is, there's another guy in the car with him. I go to open the passenger door and Steve motions for me to get in the back instead. Huh.

"Tony, this is Bucky," he says. "He's, uh…a friend from school."

Bucky looks a little peeved about Steve's choice of words but he turns and smiles. And fuck, he's really attractive. Classic good looks. I tend to forget that Steve is kind of a dreamboat and can probably attract the same level of men as I do, if not higher. I thought maybe he was just into women—he once showed me a photo of the woman he left behind during the war and she was a looker, too—but I guess there are some things I don't know about him.

"Sorry if I interrupted your evening," I say to them.

"Apology accepted," Bucky says, at the same time as Steve says, "Don't apologize! It's not your fault."

They exchange a tense look and Steve blushes. _Awkward_.

"What? It wasn't his fault."

"But we were having a nice evening together," Bucky says.

"Tell you what," I say. I take out my wallet and hand Bucky a hundred-dollar bill. "For tomorrow night. You can have another nice evening together. Or you can use it to see a proctologist and have the stick in your ass removed."

Steve snorts, then shakes his head, trying to recover. "Tony, that's—that's offensive," he says. Bucky gives him a death glare.

"Sorry," I say, and put the money away. "About the stick, that is."

In the rearview mirror, I can see Steve bite his lip to keep from laughing. I smile for the first time since the party.

We have to drop Bucky off on campus before Steve can take me home. The guy leaves in a huff and Steve sighs as he looks back at me. "I'm going to say goodnight to Bucky. Try not to blow up my car while I'm gone, or turn it into a hovercraft."

Well, well, looks like Steve grew a sense of humor somewhere along the way. I resist cutting him down with a nasty reply, if only because he did pick me up in Bumfuck, Queens. I watch out the window as he follows after Bucky. It looks like they're going to kiss but then at the last minute, Steve smooches the back of Bucky's hand instead. Bucky looks surprised for a moment; then he shoves Steve's shoulder and yells at him. No room for gentlemen in the twenty-first century, it seems.

After some more bickering, Bucky pulls Steve in for a real kiss. I only watch for a few seconds before I get depressed and look away.

When I get home, Steve explains everything to Fury and I hide in my bedroom, where my phone is sitting and waiting for me. I guess Loki conjured it back over. There's a message on it that says, _I'd apologize for pilfering your phone, but I do what I want. Why no naked pics? LL_

A quick look through my gallery tells me that he didn't even have the courtesy to leave a few naked pics of his own. Swell. Now I'm even more depressed.

*

"It is my hips, is it not?"

Coulson and I share a look of distinct skepticism.

"Uhh, Thor, didn't you hear what I just said? I'm pretty sure the main reason Loki isn't interested is because of the whole centuries of war thing. I don't think it has anything to do with your hips or any other body part."

"They're very shapely hips," Coulson adds.

Thor sighs and pushes a French fry through the giant puddle of ketchup on his plate. "I suppose I have always known it could never be. His human form is especially appealing, however. Perhaps that is why I was drawn to the idea."

"Yeah, you were pretty drawn, at that." I glance over at Coulson, remembering how Loki changed into him for that one terrifying minute in his car. I shudder and decide to never tell him about that, ever. "Anyway, fuck it, right? We'll find you someone better. And hotter."

"I desire no one else, Tony Stark."

"Oh, come on. How about our waiter? Check out those guns."

Coulson smiles dreamily, which for him is a slight, almost unnoticeable upturn of one corner of his mouth. "Puny. Barton's are much nicer."

"I'm going to vomit into my nachos," I groan.

Thor smiles through a mouthful of food. "You are fortunate to have found a mate so promising, Son of Coul. Perhaps one day, Tony Stark and I will find such mates of our own."

"Thanks but no thanks," I say, waving a hand. "I'm not into the whole 'mating for life' thing. I thought we established this. I'm more of a sex connoisseur."

"More like amateur," Coulson mutters. I elbow him in his side but he barely flinches. Thor, perhaps for the first time in his life, seems to be quick on the uptake.

"Tony Stark, you are pure?"

"For fuck's sake. I wouldn't say _pure_ , no. I've just…been through some things. It hasn't exactly been my number one priority. I'm not ashamed of it, but you know. Don't spread it around." I shoot Coulson a nasty look. It's true that I'm not ashamed but that doesn't mean I need the entire school to know I've been spending the past few years locked away in my lab, building robots and flying suits, rather than adding notches to my bedpost. Coulson was never supposed to be so forthcoming with that information. I'm so going to sic a pointy robot on him later. Or, better yet… "Anyway, I wouldn't talk if I were you, Phil."

"I'm not really comfortable—"

"Once again, I am puzzled," Thor says. "I assumed you and Clinton Barton were indulging in coitus, Son of Coul."

"We—ugh." Coulson shuts his eyes briefly, clearly uncomfortable with this turn in the conversation. I lean in closer and pay avid attention. "We have…pretty much done everything but. However, Barton has no reason to complain. But technically, I am a…yes."

"You're a yes?" I ask.

"I'm _sixteen_ ," Coulson says, looking furious and/or constipated. "It's still socially acceptable to be a virgin at sixteen."

Thor sighs. "I am not pure of body myself, but then, I am much older than you. I am left to wonder, after three-thousand years of fervent searching, if I will ever find a love of my own."

Coulson and I don't know what to say to that, so we keep quiet, letting Thor have a few moments to sulk. Then he starts _banging his head against the table_. The entire thing rattles from the force of it and Coulson dives for a plate that nearly falls off the edge. When we finally get him to stop, there's a huge crack in the Formica. Thor's forehead, on the other hand, looks fine.

Clearly, I need to find a replacement for Loki, and stat. There's nothing more pitiful than a sad Norse god, wandering around Earth, trying to give himself a concussion.

*

Problem is, there's a distinct lack of hot, worthwhile people enrolled at Avengers Academy. Sure, Loki is good-looking and fun to banter with, but that's probably due to the fact that he's ancient and otherworldly. He's had a long time to sharpen his conversation skills, and he can look however the hell he wants to look. Coulson and Clint are both semi-attractive, in their ways, but blech. Everyone else is nothing to write home about. I'm telling you, I'm surrounded by mediocrity. No wonder I'm more interested in my lab experiments.

I'm sitting in Banner's class, contemplating the whole depressing scenario and ignoring whatever's being discussed, when there's a knock on the front door. I turn and lay eyes on the most ridiculously attractive woman I've ever seen. She's gorgeous, with sinfully red hair and an amazing body, and she's wearing this little leather jacket over a skintight cat suit. Definitely not an outfit you'd find in the JC Penney back-to-school catalog. She looks right at me, gives a mysterious little smirk, and I grip the edges of my desk with both hands.

Banner goes over to greet her and I bolt upright, as stiff as a meerkat. I've never been so excited to pay attention to class in my _life_.

"This must be the elusive Natasha," Banner says. "Done infiltrating that drug cartel?"

The woman—Natasha—shrugs easily. "For the moment."

"Well, have a seat and acclimate yourself to the much less exciting world of debate class."

Banner motions to an empty desk, which happens to be right next to me, oh blessed day. Natasha walks over—well, more like a strut, really—and I can't take my eyes off her. I know my mission was to find some new tail for Thor but you know what? He's cool. He's been cool for three thousand years. What's the rush? Natasha sits and crosses her legs slowly as she makes eye contact with me. It's electric.

"Nice stems," I murmur, glancing at her powerful legs.

"I know forty ways to kill a man with them," she murmurs.

Okay, I'm in love.

"Tony, it's time for your oral," Banner says. My dick jerks to attention at that.

"My…my what?"

"Your original oral," Banner says, looking greenish. "On violence in the media?"

Oh, right. I get up and head to the front of the classroom, glancing at Natasha, who winks at me before I begin.

"So, okay. It seems like every other year, there's some jerk-off in the government who says there's too much violence on TV and in movies, and frankly, that's a load of crap, because violence is _awesome_. Seriously, everyone I know loves violence. Even people who say they don't actually do. Come on, it's not like people are watching the nightly news to hear stories about fluffy kittens getting saved from trees. They want to hear about the murders and the robberies and all that jazz, because it's way more interesting. So until humanity as we know it stops being so obsessed with dark subject matter, we should keep glorifying violence on TV. Also, explosions are cool. The end."

There's a round of applause and I smile when Natasha claps as well, maybe a little less enthusiastically than the others.

"That was…something. Any comments?" Banner asks the class.

"I'm bored and want to flay something," Loki says.

"Not exactly the constructive feedback I was looking for, Loki. But I suppose you've proven Tony's point. Thank you for your contribution."

"What'd you think?" I whisper to Natasha, when I'm back in my seat.

"It was completely nonsensical and yet I agreed wholeheartedly." She gives me an enigmatic smile. "Very impressive, how you managed that."

After that, I'm pretty sure Natasha likes me. Consider me emboldened. I spend the next few days preening and sending myself gifts to make it seem as though there are thousands of other women and men after me. And, hey, it's not far from the truth. I may or may not know of a couple of Tony Stark fansites out there. Clint eats most of the Belgian chocolates I send myself one day, but that's okay because I'm wearing the tightest pair of jeans I own and I probably couldn't consume more than a couple hundred calories before the button popped off. What can I say? They make my bulge look great. And, as expected, Natasha takes notice.

"Are you sure you can breathe in those things?" she asks. "I'm feeling sympathy for the little guy trapped inside."

"What makes you think he's little?" I ask, peering at her over my sunglasses. "Not that he doesn't appreciate your concern and attention. Say, listen: What are you doing this weekend? There's a party going on at my friend's—well, this guy I know, at his college campus. Maybe we could cause some mayhem."

"I do enjoy mayhem," she says.

"Who doesn't?"

 You guys. Get this: I actually have a date.

*

Suddenly, S.H.I.E.L.D. has some kind of top-secret case to take care of—which is hilarious, because it's not as if JARVIS can't tell me every single word that's uttered within these walls—so the mansion is filled with agents who get in my way and use up all the peanut butter. Fury also taps Steve to help out, since I guess he's special, what with his colorful past of fighting some bad guy who had a nasty sunburn.

I'm glancing at the confidential files that JARVIS has helpfully copied into my main directory when he pipes up with an alert.

"Sir, a female intruder—your companion for the evening, I believe—is currently being held at gunpoint in the main S.H.I.E.L.D. conference room by Director Fury, Captain Rogers, and four other agents."

My head whips up at that. I'd been in the middle of a very interesting memo, too. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. Is she okay?"

"She appears to be holding her own. Shall I offer her a cup of tea?"

"STARK!" Fury suddenly yells through the surveillance feed. "Get your ass down here and explain to me why a notorious assassin is standing in the middle of this goddamn mansion!"

Oh, boy. "Coming, dear," I say, blowing a kiss to the feed.

When I get downstairs, I find Natasha in a tense standoff with Fury, Steve, and the rest of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, just as JARVIS described. Everyone's weapons are drawn, their fingers placed firmly on the triggers. I glance around the room, my gaze landing on Natasha.

"What did you do, track mud inside?"

Natasha smirks, looking pretty calm for someone with a dozen guns pointed at her. "Stark, will you please tell your bodyguards that I have no qualms with S.H.I.E.L.D. whatsoever? I was just finding my way inside."

Fury's eye looks ready to pop. " _Bodyguards_?"

"Look, guys, cool it with the dramatics, okay? Miss Romanoff here and I are going out tonight."

"Tony, this is your _date_?" Steve asks.

"She's in my debate class!" I say, throwing my hands up. "You guys. I'm telling you, she's not here to cause trouble. We're going to a party, for Christ's sake. You know how teenagers do that? Go to parties? Drive around town?"

"We did have intel that said the Black Widow was planning to attend Avengers Academy," Fury says. "What I _should_ have known was that our flyboy here was going to make a pass at her the moment he laid eyes on her."

"Um, objection! I was a complete gentleman. Well, mostly."

"How did she get past all the souped-up security in this mansion?" Steve asks, still frowning deeply. "I know I don't understand all the lasers and doohickeys you use to control it, Tony, but last time I checked, it was pretty impenetrable."

Natasha gazes at him coolly. "And what would you know about penetration, Mr. Rogers?"

"God, I'm torn between kissing your feet and hating you for thinking of that comeback before I could," I say. I glance at Steve, who's looking pretty red in the face. Who knew recently thawed super-soldiers could blush? "He does bring up a good point, though. We do have a doorbell on the front door of this place, you know."

"What fun would that be?" Natasha looks to Fury and the others and tilts her head. "I apologize for interrupting your meeting, gentlemen. Old habits die hard."

Steve looks skeptical but he's the first to lower his weapon. After a tense moment, Fury exhales and does the same, the rest of the agents following suit. Natasha holsters hers as well, with the look of someone who's got it all under control. I don't doubt that she could have taken them all out in seconds flat. It's safe to say that I'm thoroughly titillated by the idea. I do enjoy a dangerous woman.

"That's more like it," I say. I walk over to Natasha and brush a kiss to her cheek. "Hello, gorgeous. Black Widow, huh? Where you hiding the venom?"

"Hello, Stark," she says, all venom included. She glances down at my too-tight pants. "And little Stark."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Steve whisper something to Fury, who then erupts with, "Stark, what in the goddamn hell are you wearing?"

I glance down at myself. "Definitely not underwear, I can tell you that much."

"Both of your outfits leave nothing to the imagination," Steve says, frowning. I swear, all he needs is a corncob pipe and a cane he can shake at the neighbor's kids playing in his yard.

"Yeah, well, welcome to the 21st century, Gramps. Listen, you guys enjoy playing Space Invaders or whatever it is you're doing. We're going out into the world to be amongst the humans. Don't wait up."

"Miss Romanoff," Fury calls, making us pause. "The kid's a royal pain in my ass, but if anything happens to him, I've got a few dozen more of these agents on call, and an underground cell in the Appalachia with your name on it."

"Sounds like fun," Natasha says, turning on her heel.

I can feel Steve's eyes on me as we leave, continuing to judge. It's pretty hilarious that he's so concerned. Fury's the one who's responsible for me, sort of, and he's already back to playing Sudoku on his iPad.

"Sorry for the, uh, confusion," I say as we walk outside. Natasha's sweet ride is waiting for us. "Fury can be a little scary."

"I wasn't scared." She gets into the car and tosses her hair back. "If you hadn't walked in, he might have lost that other eye."

"Please spare the eye. It's already hard enough to look at him."

"He worries about you. It's…nice." She glances at me and smirks. "Now put on your seatbelt so I don't have to go to war with S.H.I.E.L.D."

I wrinkle my nose and do as she says. "Yes, ma'am."

*

The party is totes ridic, if I do say so myself. Makes sense that Steve's friends would be a lot cooler than him. There's a DJ who I'm pretty sure is famous, at least in underground circles, and everyone is sweating and grinding and looking sexy in the way that college students tend to do. Natasha and I are the hottest couple in the club and I know I'm the envy of every guy and gal there. She's an amazing dancer, too. I wonder if they taught her those moves in Soviet spy summer camp, or wherever she was trained.

I told Thor about the party, so it doesn't surprise me when I see him at the top of the stairs, walking into the club in a ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and board shorts. I _know_ Coulson didn't tell him to wear that. Maybe it was a gift from Clint, who I'm pretty sure lives in PacSun. He waves wildly to us, then proceeds to fall on his ass when someone bumps into him.

Remember that sound? If not, let me refresh your memory: That sound is _thud_.

I excuse myself and head over to make sure the big guy didn't dent his butt or anything, and he looks at me, abashed.

"This is a great humiliation," he mutters, rubbing his ass.

"I'm sure no one noticed," I say. It's a total lie, considering that Thor is pretty hard to miss, even when he's not falling down a flight of stairs.

To make matters worse, we notice Mr. Giggles himself, Loki Laufeyson, dancing in the crowd with that other pain in the ass, Darcy.

"I see he has found another amusement," Thor sighs, looking on woefully. "They make a very becoming pair."

"No way," I scoff. When Natasha wanders over to join us, I point them out in the crowd. "Hey, Romanoff. What do you think of Loki and Darcy over there?"

She levels her freaky glare at them. "Why is that girl dancing with a scarecrow?"

"See?" I say. Thor shrugs but we score a chuckle out of him.

"I'm going to get a drink," Natasha announces. "Got any cash, Mr. Monopoly?"

"Sure thing, babydoll."

Natasha sashays toward the bar with a crisp twenty-dollar bill from my wallet and it's worth the cost just to get a glimpse of her walking away. Thor makes a low rumble in his throat, which I recognize as approval, loud and clear.

"She is a fine specimen, Tony Stark," he says.

"She's the hottest thing going on two legs, is what you mean. And let me tell you, Thor: The Stark charm is working wonders." Just then, some guy tries to get close to Natasha by the bar, cupping her elbow, and she retaliates by ramming said elbow into his nose. "See how she ignores every other guy?"

"Ignores or maims?" Thor asks.

"Potato, potahto."

Just then, we spot Steve standing by the railing on the above floor. Seriously, _Steve_. I'm guessing that Fury sent him to spy on us, because this place is so not his cup of tea. He's talking to someone extremely old—the janitor, it looks like—who needs to hang onto his broom with both hands in order to stay upright.

"That is your acquaintance, Steven Rogers, is it not?" Thor asks.

"Yeah. I see he found the one person here in his age category. Kudos to him."

"Come on, Stark," Natasha says, walking up and handing me a shot. "Let's dance." I down the whiskey quickly and oblige her.

I feel kinda bad for leaving Thor all alone, standing there with his long hair and stupid shirt, scaring the children. But seriously, I'm on a date here—a very hot date, at that. My guilt is alleviated when Steve wanders over to Thor and strikes up a conversation with him. An awkward conversation, sure, but it's something. And Thor lights up like a Christmas tree from the unexpected attention.

I nudge Natasha to look as they move onto the dance floor. Steve touches Thor's waist, takes his hand, and…starts slow dancing with him. To a LMFAO song.

"I've seen a lot of awful things in my life—murder, battlefields, torture cells. But that, right there, may be the worst," Natasha says.

"Give the guy a break," I murmur. "He missed _Elvis_."

*

Natasha gets wind of some after-party and desperately wants to stay, even though she's my ride. Steve is nice enough to offer to take us home, good soldier that he is, so I end the night sitting next to him in his dinky little Prius, on loan from S.H.I.E.L.D. It's a far cry from where I thought I'd end up—namely, writhing around with Natasha in my giant bed, slowly being suffocated by her shapely thighs. A glorious death, to be sure.

But there's a breeze drifting in through the windows, Cole Porter is playing as Steve hums along, and I suppose it could be worse. Steve fills out that sky blue polo shirt nicely, too.

"It was nice of you to dance with Thor," I say, breaking the silence. "He's, um…special. As you can see."

"He's awkward," Steve says, smiling. "I can understand awkward. I _live_ awkward."

I suppress a laugh and shake my head. "You do all right, Cap."

Steve reaches out and turns down the volume of the CD. I've tried to teach him the joys of iPods, I really have, but Steve prefers CDs because they don't involve computers. I suppose it's better than having to install a phonograph in the car.

"I'm surprised you didn't want to go to that party with the Black Widow," he says. "Staying out all night, dancing and drinking with a beautiful girl—seems like that's right up your alley."

"You're not wrong about that. But I'd rather not be there to witness when Fury's good eye pops out of its socket."

"You really do know how to paint a horrific picture, Tony."

"I'm an artist with words."

Steve laughs at that, glancing at me, and it makes my heart stutter momentarily against the reactor. I swallow and tell myself that it's not an unreasonable reaction. Even I can admit that a smile from Steve Rogers is like a burst of sunshine right between the eyes. They built him that way.

"Thing is, you probably would have gotten away with it. Fury's going to be distracted by that new mission all night."

I take a moment to consider this. "You know what we should do? Get some crazy good takeout and bring it back for Cyclops and the other agents. It would be totally awesomesauce and win me some major brownie points."

"And since when are you in the market for brownie points?"

"For the next time I cause an explosion in one of the labs."

"So, tomorrow," Steve jokes, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He smiles at me again. "Well, I guess it would be pretty…awesomesauce of us."

The noise I let out is somewhere between a guffaw and a wail of agony. If only JARVIS had been here to record that. I could turn it into a ringtone and make a fortune.

After we stuff the S.H.I.E.L.D. folks full of burgers, pizza, and fries, it's pretty late, so Steve decides to spend the night. I've got a room all set up for him, designed to look like something out of the forties: simply decorated, without too many tricky devices. There's even an old-timey radio, made of wood with a bisected speaker and little black knobs. I think he's getting used to the perks of modern technology, though, because lately he spends more time in the main rec room, where the ninety-two-inch TV lives. I park on the couch with him once I'm in my PJs and scope out tomorrow's schedule on my phone.

"Ugh, three hours in the gym. Maybe I can reward myself after with a soak in the jacuzzi and a bottle of gin. You know, gym gin. It's a thing."

"Why do you spend so much time in the gym if you don't like it?"

"Some of us aren't human tanks with super serum running through our veins, Steviekins."

"Poor puny humans." Steve uses the Schwarzenegger accent he learned how to do a few months ago, when he found out who Schwarzenegger is. He's no longer allowed to borrow my copies of the _Terminator_ movies.

"You are the most ridiculous," I say. There's a big bowl of popcorn between us and I grab a handful. "So what are you doing for spring break, Steve-o?"

He shrugs and looks at the TV. "Oh, you know. Hanging out on campus. Getting some work done for my classes."

"Hanging out on campus," I repeat. "Which will be a ghost town. Because it's spring break."

"Well, I mean…" Steve gets an adorable little furrow between his eyebrows. "It'll be good. The solitude. It'll be peaceful."

"Right, like how Chernobyl was peaceful after the fact."

"Okay, I know that reference, and I don't think it's very appropriate."

I sigh and turn to face Steve on the couch, poking his gargantuan bicep. "You're being a dummy. And I don't mean like my pet robot, though you might be equally dense right now. Steve, staying on an empty college campus is the dumbest idea ever. You have a perfectly nice room in the mansion that I decorated _just for you_ , with the ancient radio and the manual typewriter and everything. Just hang out here for the week. No big."

"You sure?" Steve asks, tilting his head. "I know how important your social life is to you. You might not like having a—a big brother type around."

"Steve, you are not my brother," I say, with all the horror I can muster. "You are the oversized, Aryan galumph they fished out of the ice and then brought to my house, to eat all the food in my fridge and then some."

"Seventy years without food leaves you feeling kind of peckish, okay?" Steve says. He flicks a popcorn kernel at me and I shove him playfully. It's kind of…charming. In a weird way. "Okay, I'll stay," he says, after a moment. "If you insist, Mr. Stark."

"I do insist. Now shut up and watch the TV."

Steve and I turn back to what's on: an old episode of _America's Next Top Model_. He watches for a few minutes, munching on popcorn and looking confused.

"Is 'smizing' one of those things I'm going to have to look up in the Urban Dictionary Internet page?"

"Considering it's a word that Tyra Banks invented, I'd spare yourself the effort and do something more useful with your time, like gargling with Ajax."

Steve blinks and eats another handful of popcorn.

"Well, that doesn't sound like fun at all."

*

After the party, I'm really looking forward to seeing Natasha again. So naturally, I don't call her for a week. All part of the game, you see. But when I do, I invite her over to Casa de Stark for a romantic evening alone.

I don't have to tell you guys that this is a big fucking deal. I haven't had a hot girl alone with me in my house since…forever. And even though we won't be _entirely_ alone—Fury and Steve are puttering around their respective areas and the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are still taking up valuable space—I don't plan on exposing Natasha to them again. It's going to be just her and me. Lovely, gorgeous her, and smoking hot me.

I waste no time in calling for reinforcements. Not thirty minutes later, Coulson is sitting on my bed, trying to choose between the seventeenth and eighteenth outfit options I've shown him.

"Oh, my god," he moans, falling back onto the mattress. "Isn't this why you have a robo-butler? To dress you for special occasions?"

"I can assure you, Mr. Coulson, I am not a robot, nor a butler," JARVIS answers.

"Yeah, show some respect," I say. "Seriously, though. I need to look like a suave motherfucker for this date. My tight pants aren't going to cut it this time. And you're the best dresser I know."

Coulson peers at me through one eye. Flattery always does the trick with him.

"Go with the eggplant shirt. It's a good color for you. Dark-rinse jeans, too. Slim fit. And those Italian leather loafers that I covet."

I hope JARVIS caught that bit. Now I know what to get Phil for his birthday this year. "See, was that so hard?"

"Tony, you're never this nervous about a date. Why is this one so special?"

"Because." I turn toward the mirror and hold the dark purple shirt up to my chest. It's risky, but it _is_ a nice color on me. "Natasha's the hottest woman I've ever met in my entire life. And, you know. I'm thinking about giving her the big V."

Coulson arches a brow. "Venereal disease?"

"The big V that you and I have in common," I snap, turning around quickly.

"That should make for a juicy journal entry. 'Dear Diary: I gave my flower to a dangerous assassin tonight. She was tender but her gun kept digging into my hip.'"

Okay, never mind. No birthday present for Phil this year. Not unless it's tube socks.

When Natasha arrives, I give her a tour of the mansion and keep her far away from any area where armed government agents currently reside. I take her through the rec room, the bowling alley—everywhere but my laboratory—and it's safe to say she's not impressed by any of it. That is, until we get to the S.H.I.E.L.D. shooting range. Natasha's got a great poker face, probably honed by years of practice, but I'm pretty sure I can see a momentary flicker of genuine excitement in her eyes.

"Can we do some target practice?" she asks.

"Sure." I lead her inside and fetch us some earmuffs and protective eyewear while she scopes out the gun selection. "Technically, I'm not supposed to use the range without Fury's permission, but I'm sure he won't notice."

"That's silly," Natasha says. "He's training you to work for his agency, is he not? Like your father did? You should learn how to shoot."

I want to ask how in the hell she knows about my father, but the guy _was_ one of the most famous people in the world at some point. Plus, if Natasha is any good at being a spy, she probably knows everything about S.H.I.E.L.D. and its colorful history. I shrug and hand her the supplies she needs.

"Fuck, no. I'm not out to work for S.H.I.E.L.D. I'm not exactly a team player. Not so much into following rules, either."

"And yet you let the agency continue to use your family's mansion as its headquarters?"

I don't say anything in return as a signal for her to drop it, and she does. I wonder if Natasha knows about the hostage incident; she probably does. Either way, I don't feel like explaining the ramifications to her. Not right now, anyway. I pick up a handgun and she touches my hand, but only to take it away from me. She gives me another weapon instead.

"Well, if he won't teach you, I will."

And, hey, wow. Did you guys have any idea how arousing it is to let someone teach you how to shoot a gun? I'm not a complete amateur but Natasha's aim is sick—she even rivals Clint in that area. She demolishes five targets before she sets to work on helping me, and that happens to involve her body pressed very close to mine as she positions my arms and straightens my stance.

If she did have a gun on her person, it would definitely be digging into my hip. Damn Coulson for putting that thought into my head.

"It's all about follow-through," she murmurs after I shoot a few rounds, her breath warm against my neck. "Nice shirt, by the way. Interesting color."

"Thanks," I say, my voice a little raspy. My dick is definitely taking notice of all the close attention and the gunplay isn't doing anything to help matters. I just wish Natasha wasn't making me so nervous. I'm never this nervous. But, then again, I've never tried to seal the deal with another person before. "Hey, you want JARVIS to fetch us a drink? I've got a bottle of wine chilling downstairs."

"I'm not much for alcohol."

"Coffee, then? Or anything. We could drink it upstairs in my room."

There's a noticeable pause, during which I hope Natasha is checking out the situation below my belt, because hellooooo, nurse. Ready, willing, and able. Big V, it was nice knowing ya. But then? Disaster. She steps away, takes off her protective gear, and shakes her head.

"Actually, I think I'm tired."

"Tired?" I say, squinting at her. "From what, a half-hour of target practice? You mean to tell me you don't get assigned missions that are longer than this all the time?"

Natasha turns on her heel and gives me a look that shuts me right up.

"I _said_ I'm tired. Now stop asking questions and see me out."

The situation in my pants abruptly deflates. I manage a nod and put down my gun.

We're both pretty quiet until we get to the front door of the mansion. Natasha kisses my cheek and takes my hand in hers. All these mixed signals are making my head hurt.

"It's not often that I get to make friends," she says, her voice soft. "Can we do that? Can we be friends?"

"Sure," I say, faking a smile. "Friends. No problem."

"Good." She gives my hand a squeeze. "Because I would like that."

Then she's gone. I look up to the ceiling and sigh.

"JARVIS, what the fuck was that?"

"I believe it was you retaining your 'big V,'" he says. "That is, for the time being."

"It was the shirt, wasn't it? I knew it was bad."

"It would not have been my first choice, sir."

*

I tell everyone the tale of woe in my convertible the next day. It's a good distraction from all of the signs and traffic lights that I usually try to avoid anyway. Thor keeps glancing around, not listening to what I'm saying. He seems…nervous. Which is silly, because I'm an ace driver and he's safe and sound in the passenger seat beside me. I suppose that New York City traffic would make any inexperienced driver nervous, but I'm no average inexperienced driver. As far as I'm concerned, the road belongs to me. Everyone else can get the fuck off it, if they don't like it.

"Maybe she really was tired," Coulson suggests from the backseat. "Granted, she's an internationally known assassin who's probably had to stay awake on missions for days at a time, but…she could be off her game."

"Probably just as well," I say. "It would have taken me forever to figure out how to peel off that skintight outfit. Not that I wouldn't have enjoyed trying."

"Where are we even going?" Clint asks. "Why are we on the West side?"

"Because Shake Shack," Coulson whines, nudging their knees together.

Thor makes a low rumble in his throat. "Tony Stark, I am unsettled by all of these vehicles vying for control of the roadway."

"Traffic, buddy. It's called traffic."

And it's driving me _nuts_. As soon as the lane beside us opens up, I make a split decision and swerve into it. Naturally, everyone else in the car seems to have some kind of a problem with that.

"Are you crazy?" Coulson yells. "What am I talking about? Of course you are. Dumbest question I've asked all year."

"Debatable."

"I swear to god, Stark," Clint says, laughing. "You can't drive for shit."

"This is most nerve-wracking," Thor mutters. He's holding onto his seatbelt so tightly, his entire hand is white.

" _Anyway_ ," I drawl, trying to get back to the business at hand. These people need to get their priorities in check. "The point is, I really liked her and if she'd just given me a chance, I would have been totally down to have sex with her."

"Have sex with who?" Clint asks, suddenly joining the conversation.

"Natasha Romanoff."

Clint's laughter is deafening. Not to mention obnoxious. " _You_ , have sex with _Natasha_? That's fucking rich. She's obviously gay."

"What?!" My hands jerk on the steering wheel and the car skids a little, making Thor jump. "No fucking way!"

"I did see her staring at Coach Hill the other day," Coulson says. "And she tends to maim guys who hit on her."

"Tell me about it," Clint says. "The other day, she roundhoused me just for asking what time it was."

Coulson rolls his eyes. "You're so obvious."

"Maybe she just doesn't like attention," I offer. "She's usually undercover, right?"

I'm caught between how much Natasha being gay actually makes sense and how amazing the idea of some Natasha-on-Hill action would be when someone honks behind me and I veer into the turn lane without thinking.

"Wait, Tony, what are you doing?" Coulson asks. "This isn't the way."

"Holy shit; we're heading toward the tunnel," Clint says.

Thor and I repeat in unison. " _Tunnel_?"

"Yeah, the Lincoln Tunnel?"

"Fuck my dick," I mutter.

It's pretty much the worst thing that could happen. While I normally love driving fast, it seems like a really bad idea while encased in a concrete tube that's surrounded by a body of water. It doesn't stop everyone else from driving fast around us, zooming by at speeds that feel like they're breaking the sound barrier. Everyone in the car is freaking the _fuck_ out and that doesn't help matters any. I'm suddenly trying to remember every stupid driving rule Steve ever told me when I totally wasn't listening. I check every mirror I have and keep my hands at ten and two, my heart racing. All of the yelping and growling around me _really_ isn't helping.

"You just had to go to Shake Shack, didn't you, Phil?" I shout over the roar of the wind.

"Who told you to drive into the _Lincoln fucking Tunnel_?" he counters, and okay, fair point.

"TONY STARK, WHAT IS THIS CHANNEL YOU HAVE STEERED US INTO?" Thor booms. It's the first time his outside voice has been appropriate in the given situation. He looks like he's going to _shit_ himself. "THIS SITUATION IS MOST DANGEROUS AND UNWELCOME."

"What the fuck do you want me to do, go in reverse?"

"Jesus Christ, no!" Clint yells. "Tony, just drive! And for fuck's sake, go faster! Why aren't you going one-twenty like you usually do?"

"I keep telling my foot to hit the gas, but it doesn't want to!"

"I MUST NOT MEET MY END IN THIS MANMADE METAL CONTRAPTION. I MUST DEPART IMMEDIATELY."

I smack Thor hard on the shoulder. "Keep your hairy, Norse ass in the car!"

"Tony, keep your hands on the wheel at all times!" Clint instructs me.

Then he turns and gets a load of the giant tour bus barreling down on us. And screams like a girl.

"Not helping!" Coulson hisses.

Thor's hair starts whipping into my face as I accelerate, so I flip the switch for the convertible top to go up. He grabs my arm in panic and _Jesus fucking Christ_ ; the man's got a grip like a trash compactor. I can already feel a bruise forming.

"Watch the arm!" I yell over all the honks, trying to steer straight.

"THESE VEHICLES ARE EXTREMELY ANGRY! THEY SEEK REVENGE UPON US! I WILL NOT HAVE YOU ENCASE ME IN THIS TOMB!"

And no one will ever believe us when we tell this story, but I swear to the Christian, monotheistic god that Thor lifts his hammer and an actual bolt of lightning crackles inside the convertible, followed by a deafening crash of thunder. Just like that, Thor is gone, having made his exit through the fucking _roof of my car_. If I didn't believe he was a Norse god before, I've definitely got the picture now.

"Oh, my god," I mutter. "Fury's going to kill me." I'm trying desperately to stave off a fucking panic attack, what with this situation now utterly and completely out of my control. My hands are shaking on the wheel and I don't know how to make them stop. The passenger seat is _singed_. Someone says my name but I can't really acknowledge him, not until a hand grasps my shoulder and squeezes.

"Yeah," I say. "I'm—I'm here."

The next thing I know, Phil is climbing over the seat and unbuckling me, urging me into Thor's vacated seat. Somehow, we manage to keep the car moving and relatively steady. There's a dull roar in my ears but I can sort of hear Clint coaching from the backseat. Phil looks like an absolute badass as he takes control of the situation and drives us out of the tunnel, toward the nearest exit. They're a good team, those two, and one day they'll make excellent S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, and I swear to all that's holy that I'll never make fun of them ever again for how sickeningly in love they are.

Of course, when we're finally parked and out of danger, I realize I may have to revise that thought. I'm still trying to catch my breath, the adrenaline finally wearing off, when I notice in the rearview mirror that Coulson's made his way back to Clint and there is a _lot_ of sex going on. Right there in the backseat. Of my car.

Ick.

Rather than watch Coulson's virginity go from technical to nonexistent, I get out of the car and promptly puke in the gutter. It's not the first time I've vomited in Jersey and it probably won't be the last. But what's strange is when I realize, sitting on the curb and waiting for them to be done, that this time I wouldn't mind having someone there beside me. Someone to lean against, just a little, who can tell me it's going to be okay. Not that I _need_ that, but yeah.

That could be nice.

*

The next day at school, everyone's talking about "Thor's brush with death in the Lincoln Tunnel." Never mind that we were all there, too. The local news channels all picked up on these "human rocket" sightings that were being reported and then Clint had to go and open his big, gossipy mouth and tell everyone what happened. People are mostly just shocked that someone like Thor would be afraid of _anything_. Plus, they're lapping up the brand new information that Thor can fly. I can't help but think back to that conversation we had in my lab, when he told me that my own attempts to create a flying suit were "unnatural." Like anything is natural about a dude zipping around the Lincoln Tunnel, hanging onto a magical hammer.

Thor seems to be enjoying the attention, now that everyone knows he's a god. During lunch, he's surrounded by people who have never looked twice at him, regaling them with tales of Asgardian lore. He pauses when I walk up to his table and waves me over, seemingly happy to see me. I guess I can still be in the Thor Odinson fan club.

"Tony Stark! Please, sit and dine with us!"

"Hey, Thor," some jackass says. "Isn't this the guy who almost got you killed?"

"The guy?" I repeat. As if everyone in this school doesn't know _exactly_ who I am.

"It was an error in judgment," Thor says. "He has learned from it, I'm sure. Please, friend Tony; sit."

I do, but I'm not happy about it. "Yeah, well. What I _learned_ is never to drive on the West side again. People are crazy over—"

"Excuse me," Sir Jackass says again. "Thor, you were saying?"

"My story was complete," Thor says, laughing amiably. "My fellow warriors and I slayed the mighty Frost Giants and then celebrated with a feast of wild boar and overflowing cups of mead!"

"Yeah, buddy, that is riveting. Listen, getting back to planet Earth for a sec, do you wanna go to Nordstrom with me today? I was thinking of getting Coulson a pair of those Italian loafers he wants, to thank him for being a BAMF the other day. What do you think?"

"Son of Coul is indeed a BAMF," Thor says. "It would give me great joy to accompany you, my friend, but I am otherwise engaged this afternoon. I will be going to Roosevelt Field with Darcy Lewis."

Across the table, Darcy pops her gum and grins at me. "We're going to Roosevelt Field."

"Hey guys," Coulson says, walking over and sitting on Thor's other side. "Sorry, had to go pee. What'd I miss?"

I look at him with a faint sneer. "Et tu, Phil?"

"What? Come on. You have to admit that was pretty cool, what Thor did the other day."

"He destroyed my car and I almost had a _panic attack_. Remember?"

"Thor!" Jane scurries over to the table and smiles wide at Thor. "Hey, so, I was wondering…do you want to be partners on that astronomy project? I was just thinking, with your knowledge of other realms—which is _so_ cool, by the way—we could come up with something really amazing. What do you think?"

A funny thing happens, then. Unlike every other time he's laid eyes on Jane, Thor actually looks displeased to see her. He turns his nose up and regards her with an air of honest-to-Norse-god _disdain_.

"I do not care to assist you, no," he says. "Now please remove yourself from this area. It is reserved for those whom I deem worthy of sitting here."

Holy shit. When exactly did Thor get so full of himself? I look up at Jane and she glances back at me in shock, her eyes filling with humiliated tears. It's only for a second, before she turns and runs off.

"Thor, what the fuck was that?" I ask.

"My friend, you have said yourself that she is unworthy of my company! I have merely come to agree with you."

"So, Thor," Coulson whispers, inching closer. "Have you ever done it in water?"

"Indeed!" he says, lifting his glass. "I have fornicated in the sea upon several occasions! It is a very rewarding experience! But you must beware of coral reefs."

I shut my eyes and rub my temples carefully. Surely, I've tripped into some kind of alternate universe here. I half-expect Loki to jump out from under the table and tell me I've been punk'd. Or Loki'd, as the case may be.

*

As if I didn't have enough bullshit going on right now, Fury's also scheduled my driver's test this week. I keep telling him that I don't need a license to drive, but after he saw what Thor did to my car, he insisted.

"JARVIS, do I need a tie to wear my driver's test?"

"I don't believe so, sir. It's an informal occasion."

I hum to myself, posing in front of the mirror. "But what if the instructor is hot? I need to be at my most dashing and charming."

"I'm sure you will perform admirably in that area, sir. It's the driving bit that worries me."

"Har har. Since when do I pay you to make jokes?"

"You don't pay me at all, sir."

"Exactly."

Steve pops his head into the room, always the busybody. "Tony. I heard that. Please tell me you don't plan on flirting your way through your driving test."

I sigh and play with my collar. Popped or not? I decide on not. "Not that it's any of your business, Old Man Rogers, but I'll do whatever it takes."

"That's not what Fury is trying to teach you by making you do this," Steve says, frowning. I roll my eyes at him.

"Thanks for the pep talk, Brosicle, but I'll handle things my way, okay?"

"You know, you're a real brat, Tony."

Stern words from Captain Butthole, ladies and gents. I can't stop thinking about them as I head over to the DMV, which is really annoying. For one thing, where does Steve come off talking to me like that? We've already established the fact that he's not my big brother. And furthermore, why do I even care what Steve thinks? Just because he got stuck inside an ice cube for a few decades doesn't make him the authority on anything—except maybe cryogenics.

To make this day even worse, my driving instructor looks really familiar, and in a way that gives me this odd feeling of dread. It's not until I see his nametag that I realize exactly who he is: Obadiah Stane, this guy who used to be my dad's number two, who tried to take over Stark Industries back when I was a kid. My dad had him fired and blacklisted across the board, and I guess this is where he landed. I'd laugh at the rightness of it all, if not for the fact that I'm at his mercy right now.

"Tony Stark," Stane says, when he reads my paperwork. "Well, I'll be damned." He looks me up and down and smirks. "Never thought I'd see the day when a Stark would come through these doors. Guess even the high and mighty need to walk amongst the commoners, once in a while."

"Look, Obie," I say. It was my dad's nickname for him, back when they were pals. I can tell he doesn't much care for it now. "Whatever happened in the past is just that—the past. Right? All I want to do is take my test."

"And I'm pleased to conduct it," he says. " _More_ than pleased."

There's no way I can sweet-talk my way out of this one. Even if I wanted to flirt with Stane, which I really, truly don't, he's more interested in seeing me crash and burn than anything else. And I oblige him nicely, missing stop signs—because really, who cares?—and nearly hitting a biker—honestly, get off the fucking road, hippie, I'm trying to pass a test!—and being a terrible driver in general. Steve would either be disappointed or laughing at me if he could see me now, and I'm not sure which one would be worse.

"I was planning on watching you like a hawk, but look at this; I don't even have to." Stane says. "What is this mark on the headrest?" he adds, glancing at Thor's scorch mark.

"Uhh. Makeup. My date the other night, she was wearing a lot of eyeliner."

He scoffs and makes a note on his stupid sheet. "Playboy in training. Just like your father."

I stop paying attention to the road in favor of glaring at him. "And what the hell would you know about my father?"

"I know that I spent years being pissed off at him for ruining my career and now it turns out that his genius son, the budding CEO who was going to _revolutionize the industry_ , can't even drive a goddamn _car_."

"Hey, I'm the—"

I have to pause when I almost run over a group of schoolchildren crossing the street and manage to hit the brake at the very last second. Stane just laughs and writes more notes. He _tricked me_ , the asshole. He tricked me into not paying attention to the road and I fell for it. By talking shit about my dad, of all people. As it is, no one talks more shit about my dad than I do.

I can't believe I fell for it.

"All right, pull over, Stark. You'd already failed a few blocks back, but that was icing on the cake."

" _Failed_?" I say, gaping at him. "You can't be serious."

"I'm dead serious, Stark. You can't make turns, you can't switch lanes, and you almost turned a pack of kindergarteners into a short stack of pancakes. Even if I liked you, I couldn't pass you."

"Look, Stane," I say, feeling a hissy fit coming on. I grip the wheel with both hands and exhale through my teeth. "I know you have a massive grudge against me, or my dad, or who the fuck ever, but you _can't_ fail me. I can _buy_ the fucking DMV if I want to, and demote you to the job of the guy who takes everyone's license photos. Seriously, this is an outrage. I want to talk to your supervisor. Hell, I'm going to call the mayor about this. Because I am Tony fucking Stark, and I've done a lot of things in my life, but not once, not ever once, have I ever failed anyone's stupid fucking _test_."

Stane, the ugly, smug bastard, just smirks and rips a sheet from his pad and hands it to me.

"Welcome to the real world, kid. Enjoy your stay."

*

I can't believe that I failed. I failed something I couldn't talk my way out of. What would Howard say to me now, I wonder? Not that any of this would have happened if he hadn't pissed Stane off. But then, where would I be now? Just thinking about all of the possibilities makes my head hurt.

Naturally, Steve and Thor are both there when I get home, putting together a behemoth sandwich in the kitchen, all giggles and smiles. They're the last people I want to see right now, Steve especially.

"Friend Tony!" Thor exclaims. "You return from battle."

"How does it feel to be a licensed driver?" Steve asks, patting me on the back.

"No idea, Cap," I murmur. "I failed."

Both of their faces fall. Thor's brow furrows together, in this way that says, _How could you let us down?,_ which is really, incredibly helpful; you have no idea. As for Steve, he just stands there awkwardly, gazing at me with genuine sadness and pity in his eyes. It sets my teeth on edge. This is so not how I need my day to end. Passed out on the couch in my lab with a bottle of gin sloshing around in my stomach would be much preferable.

"Tony, jeez," Steve says, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't…I don't know what to say."

"What's there _to_ say? I'm a crap driver. It's not like this is brand new information. Just say, 'I told you so,' and we'll be done with it."

"No, I didn't—"

"Spare me, Rogers," I mutter. I don't even have the energy to think of a funny nickname right now, so I just turn and walk out of the kitchen. Unfortunately, Thor decides to follow me, all the way to the lab.

"I am sure you fought valiantly and showed great courage, my friend," he says, bounding down the stairs. "However, I require your assistance at this time."

Good lord. "With what?"

Out of nowhere, Thor produces a giant sack that he flings onto the worktable with a bang. It sounds like there are all sorts of breakables in there.

"These are items I have amassed that remind me of Loki Laufeyson. I wish to set them ablaze and send the fiery pyre down the nearest waterway."

"So…what, the East River?" I blink and peer into the sack, out of curiosity. There's a perfectly good iPod in there, the newest model, which I pull out and inspect. "Thor, you can't throw this away, it's—wait. There's only one song on here."

"Indeed. 'Party in the USA' by the young songstress, Miley Cyrus."

"That's…sweet." I put it back in the bag, even though I fully intend to swipe it for myself later. "So, you're purging."

"Yes," Thor says, grinning. "For I have found a new potential mate who outdoes Loki in every conceivable way. He is a true match for an Asgardian prince such as myself."

Okay, so maybe Thor's excitement is a little infectious. I almost crack a smile as I pull a flask and a tumbler from a nearby drawer and start to pour. "Well, don't leave me hanging in suspense. Who's the lucky guy? Or girl?"

He sneaks a peek toward the stairs and then beams at me. "I desire your compatriot, Steven Rogers."

The flask goes tumbling out of my hand, getting liquor everywhere. Shit. Well, Dummy will clean it up.

"Steve? You desi—you like _Steve_?"

"Very much so. He is a worthy mate. His strength rivals that of the gods and he has a fine palate for sandwiches."

Dummy whirs and squeaks beside me as he cleans up my mess and I all but collapse into a chair, grabbing the flask and taking a quick swig of what's left. Steve. Of all the frozen lunkheads in all the world, Thor had to go and choose mine. Or, well, not _mine_ , but the one I'm acquainted with.

"Well, uh. Do you think the feeling's mutual?"

"I have come to believe so. He is quite an affectionate mortal. And he was benevolent enough to attend to my needs at his friends' raucous celebration. I do not forget such acts of kindness."

"I dunno, Thor," I say, trying to speak around the growing lump in my throat. "You and Steve? Doesn't exactly seem like a match made in heaven to me."

"'Heaven' is a Midgardian construct, designed to distract mortals from the truths of our many realms."

"You know what I mean. I just don't think you'd…mesh well together. You get what I'm saying?"

Thor narrows his eyes at me. "I would very much like to mesh with Steven Rogers. Verily, this is the crux of what I am saying to you, Tony Stark."

"No, Thor, you don't get it. What _I'm_ saying is—"

"You do not _approve_?" Thor's lip curls in anger and he flings his hand out in the air, like something is going to happen to it. Sure enough, two seconds later, there's a crashing sound and his hammer comes flying out of nowhere, the handle landing right in his palm.

Um. _Fuckballs_. That's gonna cost me.

"Calm down, Thor, Jesus!" I hold both of my hands up, to show that I'm backing off from, well, whatever this is. "What, I'm not allowed to have an opinion?"

"Your opinion matters _not_ ," Thor says, spittle flying everywhere, "for you are insignificant and futile and small. You are no more than a virgin who cannot drive."

 _What_. Now it's my turn to be offended. Except the only thing I can manage to say is, "…That was way harsh, Thor."

He grunts and turns away from my desk, taking back the sack of Loki memorabilia before I can even grab the iPod.

"We will speak again when my anger has subsided, but no sooner," he says. "Farewell."

Then he trounces up the stairs, with all the grace of a pack of elephants, leaving me to my misery and my half-empty flask of gin. I take two sips before I realize I don't even really want it. I feel sick to my stomach. I've created a monster—a swaggering, seven-foot-tall version of me with a weapon forged out of stone from another universe—and there's nothing I can do about it. Steve warned me about this, didn't he? In his backward, Cro-Magnon way? Goddamn it. Fucking _Steve_.

I take a deep breath, touch the arc reactor lightly, and turn to look at the latest model of the suit. I put the finishing touches on it the other day, just before school, and it's gleaming at me invitingly.

Think I'll take it for a spin.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Messing with Steve and calling him names and telling him to drop dead is all well and good when he's some overgrown moose hanging out in my house and eating all my food, but this is Steve Rogers, overgrown_ dreamboat _. Just the idea of him has suddenly propelled me to half-mast in the past few days, and now he's here, right next to me, with his gigantic arms and broad chest and he's wearing sweatpants that show off way too much and how dare he what is his problem no better yet_ what is happening to me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the lovely comments and kind words, and most of all, thank you for reading.

So, can I just say one thing? The suit is _awesome_. It's the most amazing thing I've ever done, and that includes the time I streaked at the academy homecoming football game. I kind of can't believe it actually works, but then again, I _am_ a genius, or so they say. God, I would love to rub this in Stane's face right now. Or Thor's, for that matter. Unnatural science, my pale, hairy ass.

God, _Thor_. I'm flying over fucking Astoria right now, and of course, all I can think about is Thor. I'm not even mad at him, is the thing. He's the one who should be mad at me. For a genius, I'm batting a thousand in the idiot category lately. I was wrong about Loki, totally off on Natasha, and now even Steve is going to abandon me and my magical, self-replenishing fridge for someone who can make _weather_ inside a _car_ —as if that's something we all really need. Yeah, hey, Sales Guy, I'm gonna need GPS, leather seats, and the occasional tropical depression. Thanks a bunch.

"JARVIS," I say, as I do a little loop in the air for funsies. I made sure JARVIS would be with me in the suit, just in case something goes awry. Which is extremely likely. Science doesn't come easy. "You're good with feelings, right?"

"I would not deem it one of my defining characteristics," he says. "But if you are experiencing feelings, I will endeavor to aid you in sorting through them, sir. Unorthodox as it may be."

"I know, right? I never have feelings. Feelings are for people who don't understand the healing properties of alcohol and science."

"And yet you abandoned your beverage and your test drive has left you wanting."

"JARVIS, you know me too well," I sigh. "So, what's my problem? Why do you think this whole Steve and Thor thing has got my panties all in a twist?"

I can almost hear the gears whir into motion. That is, if JARVIS had gears.

"One theory is that you see a potentially hurtful outcome for the two, given the differences in their personality profiles."

I laugh as I accelerate across Queens. "What, you don't think a mutual love of hoagies is the start to a beautiful relationship?"

"Stranger things have happened," JARVIS quips. "Perhaps you feel Mr. Odinson will be left with a broken heart, given that he is new to this realm."

"Thor can take care of himself. I'm more worried about Steve accidentally getting struck by lightning in the middle of sex."

"Then my last viable hypothesis is that you already possess romantic feelings for one of the two men."

"What? That's ridiculous," I say.

But then I really think about it. Like, _really_ think about it, with all of my brain parts that are usually reserved for physics and slow cell death in warm gin baths. There's no denying that Steve and Thor are both pretty hot. And they both have those obnoxious hearts of gold. But Steve—Steve is a special case. He's a friggin' _time_ _traveler_ , for fuck's sake. He needs someone to make fun of him for all of the big band music he insists on playing, and to explain all the pop culture references he doesn't get. He needs someone to pet his hair and reassure him that Bluetooth is a thing that exists now, and that people aren't crazy when they walk down the street talking to themselves—or well, most of them, anyway. He needs someone to laugh at his jokes, if he ever comes up with one that doesn't involve chickens crossing roads.

Then it hits me.

"Holy shit," I whisper. "I'm in love with Steve."

"Sir, you're about to fly into a lighthouse."

So I am. I decide somewhere between my previous altitude and the choppy surface of the Long Island Sound that I need to improve the reflexes on this thing. That is, riiiiiiight after I finish freaking out because FUCK, I'M TOTALLY, MAJORLY, BUTT-CRAZY IN LOVE WITH STEVE.

"Oh, dear god, I hate myself," I mutter.

"A natural deduction."

*

As much as I love science and puzzling things out until the pieces fit together and make sense, this particular deduction turns out to be a rather annoying one. Because now I don't know how to act around Steve. And Steve, with his easygoing attitude and utter ineptitude regarding all things modern, has always been someone with whom I know exactly where I stand. Sure, we had a rocky start—I might have insinuated that he was only a special snowflake because of some jacked-up Powerade the government once dosed him with—but after that, everything fell into place. We bicker, we get over it, and we grudgingly respect each other. Normally, I would send myself gifts and wear the tightest pants I own to get his attention, but that won't work on Steve. He already thinks most styles of pants are too tight.

So, when we somehow end up in the rec room together, because it's spring fucking break and I invited him to stay at the mansion, BULLY FOR ME, I go into full-on panic mode. Because messing with Steve and calling him names and telling him to drop dead—oh, god, I actually told _Captain America_ to _drop dead_ , how has the government not come after me by now?—is all well and good when he's some overgrown moose hanging out in my house and eating all my food, but this is Steve Rogers, overgrown _dreamboat_. Just the idea of him has suddenly propelled me to half-mast in the past few days, and now he's here, right next to me, with his gigantic arms and broad chest and he's wearing sweatpants that show off way too much and how dare he what is his problem no better yet _what is happening to me?_

"Tony, is something wrong?" he asks me. We're sitting on opposite ends of the couch and watching _Meet the Press_ , of all things. He keeps _looking_ at me in genuine concern, with his big, blue all-American eyes, like he wants something from me. Like I actually hurt his feelings. Meanwhile, I can see his pulse beating in his neck. I can see his _pulse_ in his _neck_.

"N-no," I stutter. "I'm fine. I'm great. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you're so far away," he says. He motions to the distance between us with a hangdog look. "Usually, you're crawling all over me, wrestling me for the snacks."

Fuck him so hard for bringing up wrestling right now. No, not _fuck_ him, just—holy crap, the mental pictures. They are _not helping_. Like, Steve rolling around on a gym mat. Steve in a _unitard_. Oh, god, I think I just broke out into a cold sweat.

"Just respecting your personal space, Steve…erino."

"I had personal space for seventy years." He looks at me warily. "Also…Steverino? You're usually a lot better at the nicknames than this. You sure you're feeling okay?"

"I'm fine." I'm a mess. "I'm great." So screwed. "Everything is just…fine and great." FINE AND GREAT, the only words I know! I have instantaneously reverted back to a first-grade reading level. Isn't that just swell.

"Oh, well, okay."

Steve nods and looks away and now I'm absolutely sure that I hurt his feelings because he looks fucking _sad_. And seriously, it should be illegal to make Steve look that way. Again, I'm shocked that I haven't been sent to a detention center somewhere for these crimes against humanity. I would love to reassure Steve that it's not his fault, that I'm just being weird, but it _is_ kind of his fault, for letting them inject him with a metric ton of Turbo Sex 3000 and then unleashing him upon me to totally fuck up my game and _ruin my life_.

Also, how do you tell a guy who's never shown any romantic interest in you that you're in love with him? Better yet, how do you explain to a stand-up, rational guy from the 1940s that you're really sorry about the total shift in behavior but this is the twenty-first century and we're all crazy now with our twelve different kinds of Pepsi and our daddy issues and global warming is probably melting our brains inside our skulls and GOD, I'M SORRY I'M SO FUCKED UP, STEVE, YOU DON'T EVEN _KNOW_.

Clearly, I just need to keep my distance. But that's difficult when Steve takes it upon himself to scoot closer to me on the couch. He keeps a small distance between us, out of respect, because he's still Captain America, after all. It's all helping old ladies across the street and saving puppies from burning buildings with this jerk. Honestly, why do I like him? God, I _really_ like him. Even if he is Captain America and I'm just…well, let's just say the whole 'I'm Tony fucking Stark' thing doesn't work so well when you're trying to measure up to someone like Steve. He really is perfect. So much so, it hurts.

"Okay, hey, look at that, we're closer," I say, trying not to sound nervous.

"I can move back if you want," he says with all sincerity. I take a deep breath and shake my head. Then I try to arrange myself on the cushion in a way that will make it seem like I can handle being close to Steve, but not too close. I end up with one leg bent beneath me, and my arm in this weird position over my head. Steve gives me this pained look, like he seriously thinks I might be dying or suffering from said global warming-related brain melting. "You're comfortable like that?" he asks.

"Sure," I croak, ignoring a pain in my thigh. "Super great."

"And—let me guess—fine?"

"Ha, you got it." You sure do, Steve! AHAHA. _Kill me_.

"Well, I'm still worried. You're actually letting me watch what I want to watch, instead of telling JARVIS to jam the signal on the remote control."

"Hey, I care about politics," I say. Though I really, truly don't, and Steve knows it. Democrats, Republicans—they're all scheming scumbags, only in it for themselves. Which, hey, is probably how Steve sees me, what with all the lectures about selfishness. He gives me another incredulous look and I take a handful of his organic trail mix to distract him. It tastes like crunchy cardboard. I'm really, hyper-aware of the sensation of my own chewing. Like, I'm chewing and chewing and my mouth is moving and it's all gross and Steve is watching me chew and I end up swallowing too quickly and scratching the fuck out of my throat on caraway seeds or whatever garbage is in this stuff. I choke it down and plumb the depths of my brain for something witty to say, something more like me. "So, when is David Gregory going to tell me how surprised I should be that the senate dicked us all over by sinking that equal pay act?"

"Sometimes it seems hopeless, I know," Steve says, sighing. Then the corner of his mouth quirks upward with one of those earnest, disarming, gee-golly smiles. "But you know what? This is a great country and we're making progress. Like when Don't Ask, Don't Tell was repealed. I'm glad I got to see that—that it happened in my lifetime, against all odds."

I swallow and look at Steve in utter disbelief. You guys, I'm totally _fucked_.

"I have to go," I think I say, before I dash out of the room. Later, JARVIS's footage tells me that what I _actually_ said was, "I think I smell a bird, so hey, maybe!"

Steve is even handsome when he looks like he's on the verge of calling 911.

*

What I have on my hands here is a full-blown disaster. Steve is around _all the time_ now, and again, wasn't that ever so smart of me, to invite him to stay? Good going, idiot. I hole myself up in my lab in order to avoid him and work on the suit until my fingers hurt and my vision goes blurry. It's just as well—nobody needs me right now, what with Thor all pissed off and Coulson likely engaging in the 2012 Sex Olympics with Clint, now that his cherry's been popped.

It's not until JARVIS pings at me that I realize I've been down here working for thirty-one hours straight. Singing along to Nicki Minaj's "Marilyn Monroe," which I've dubbed my new theme song after many repeat listens.

"JARV, I told you to leave me alone for a while."

"I understand, sir. But I thought you might care to know that Director Fury is at the door."

Oh, great. Steve probably told him that I failed my test and he's here to berate me about it. Maybe he'll punish me by taking off his eye patch and ranting about the RAVAGES OF WAR. Nightmare. I tell JARVIS to pause the music and let him in, but I don't acknowledge him as he walks down the stairs.

"So, this is where you've been. JARVIS tells me you've been working nonstop. And singing."

"He's a lying liar who lies. It's an occasional glitch I programmed in him, to make him more exciting."

"Doubtful," Fury says. He walks over to the worktable and looks at the suit. "We have footage of you from the other night, somersaulting through the air over the Long Island Sound. Until you took that little tumble, that is."

"And let me guess: I breached about eight-hundred security measures."

"Maybe more like three hundred. But you did it. It works." He pauses and turns slightly so he can look at me with the good eye. "I see the craziest shit go down every damn day in my job, and yet I don't think I've ever been more alarmed than I am right now, seeing Tony Stark all sad and mopey after inventing a goddamn metal suit that _flies through the air_."

I roll my eyes and peel off my work gloves. "Maybe my life is a little more complicated than you realize, Fury. Ever think about that?"

"Probably not. You're seventeen." He gives me a strange half-smile. "But try me."

I'm not really looking to pour my heart out to someone who insists on wearing a long, leather coat even when it's ninety degrees outside—seriously, _psycho_ —but even Cyclops was probably a teenager once.

"I…like someone," I say, reluctantly. "And it sucks because he likes someone else."

Weirdly, that seems to get Fury's attention.

"You're fucking with me, right? You, Tony Stark, can't get someone to like you back? Isn't that what you do best?"

"He's…not like other people." That's probably the understatement of the year. "Not really impressed by the trappings of fame and fortune, kind of a sickening do-gooder type. Really, he's boring, when you come to think about it. I don't even know why I'm wasting my time thinking about it. I could be doing anything else in the world, like building a life model decoy of myself that I could send to school during midterms and final exams. Or, wait; do you guys already have a life model decoy of me? You've probably got a few closets full of those things, don't you?"

Fury leans against the table and folds his arms across his chest, looking down at me with great skepticism.

"I've seen hints of a do-gooder in you, too. From time to time. And I know you well enough to know you wouldn't be hiding out in your lab over someone who's boring—or hiding at all, for that matter. Starks don't hide from what they want."

I tense a little at that and turn my chair away from him. "I know what you're trying to do, Fury. Maybe these pep talks get your little worker bees going, but it won't work on me."

Fury scoffs at me. "You're assuming that I have something to gain here. For all I care, you could stay down here until you solve the world's energy crisis—and I'm sure you could." I glance at him again and he taps his chest. Oh, right, the arc reactor. I knew S.H.I.E.L.D. was in love with that thing. "Out there in the world—maybe not down here in this cesspit, but out there, people let other people care about them, once in a while."

"That sounds terrible," I say flatly.

Fury rolls his eyes—oh, good, I've worn him back down to being disappointed in me—and waves a hand, heading back to the stairs.

"Think about it, Stark. And come upstairs for food at some point. If you starve to death, JARVIS is going to be inconsolable."

"He'd probably be relieved," I say.

"I sincerely doubt that, sir," JARVIS says when Fury is gone.

"Don't tell me you care about me, too. I can't deal with all these feelings."

He's quiet for a moment. "I'm detecting a low blood glucose level, sir. Would you like a grilled cheese sandwich?"

"Oh, my god, yes."

New plan: Forget Steve, marry JARVIS instead, and eat melted cheese on bread all day. Yes, I can live with this.

*

I hate when Fury is right. But even I have to admit that he hit the nail on the head this time. Starks don't hide. And if there's anything at all that I admire about my dad, it boils down to exactly that—he never shied away from the things he wanted to accomplish. If I want Steve—and I do, I _really_ do—I have to make myself desirable to him. I have to do good deeds that aren't just avenues to getting what I want. And Steve is the epitome of all that's pure and good in the world, so I have to do my best to learn from his example. Even if it kills me. It might kill me. But I can try.

When I think about it, all of my friends are good people, even the ones who agitate me. Take Natasha, for instance—she and I have hung out a few times since our really poorly planned "date," and she's the fucking _coolest_. In addition to her super spy skills, she knows a ton about art and culture, and my aim has gotten a lot better since we met. And then there's Thor, who has to be the nicest, most kind-hearted deity in any realm—though I can't be sure, since I only found out there was more than one realm a few weeks ago. Further research is required, but I have faith in him. I just hope that his transformation is reversible. There's already one of me, and that's enough. Even Coulson and Clint, when they're not threatening to disembowel each other, can be the sweetest couple on Earth. I've seen Coulson kiss Clint's boo-boos before. While referring to them as "boo-boos." Try scrubbing that one out of your memory banks.

Fury said he saw glimpses of a do-gooder in me. Maybe he's right about that, too. Surely, my friends haven't abandoned me for a reason. But I want them to have a reason to stick around. I don't want to end up with JARVIS as my only friend. And marrying him only seemed like a viable idea until he refused to keep giving me grilled cheeses. I want to be the kind of person who can maintain relationships with corporeal entities. Specifically, blond-haired, blue-eyed entities with hearts of gold, who know that loyalty and patriotism means a lot more than wearing a flag pin and setting off fireworks.

I want to be _worthy_ of Steve. And I don't think I am. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe…I could be.

I'm not sure how to begin my quest for goodness until I spot Ms. Potts hanging flyers around the school, seeking volunteers for an upcoming Earth Day event. I remember that she brought it up in class, right after she was chosen as faculty advisor to the committee. It's music to my ears because Steve loves anything that has to do with saving the environment.

"Hey, Pepper," I call out. It gets me a withering look over the wire rims of her glasses. Really, she loves me. "Need any volunteers for this shindig?"

"You want to help?" she asks. I can tell she's surprised, but only by the very minute widening of her eyes. Otherwise, her expression remains completely composed. "Well, that would be great, Tony. You can make the check out to the academy."

"No, that's—I mean, I could do that, sure. But you need volunteers, right? For the event? That's what I mean. I'm volunteering." I spread out my arms. "I'm yours for the taking."

" _Really_." Potts shifts her stance and looks me up and down, like she's seeing me for the first time. Then she smiles. "No explosions or strippers."

My reputation precedes me. "Scout's honor," I say, and we shake on it.

I feel the same little tingle that I get when I put on my suit—like something excellent is about to happen. Like I've done something worthwhile and I'm about to see it through. Weirdly, I'm excited for this. To _help people_. Yeesh, who knew?

It takes about two hours of dealing with other people's incompetence before I declare myself head of the Earth Day Fair committee and threaten to destroy anyone who gets in my way. Potts doesn't object, probably because she realizes that I'm the only one who can get things done. Stark Mansion becomes our home base of operations and the S.H.I.E.L.D. folks look a little confused by all the kids walking around in green hats and shirts. I got us uniforms. They're vegan.

"Next order of business: sponsorship," I say, going down my checklist. "Obviously, Stark Industries is at the top of the list, but we're going to need a few more. Coulson, I need you to pitch this to some companies that could use the good PR. Car companies, Nabisco and all the other brands that make hundred-calorie packs and use way too much packaging to do it. Coca-Cola, because no one is buying that 'hey, we love polar bears, drink our poison!' crap anymore. We need hella swag for this thing."

"Got it," Coulson says, taking copious notes.

"Clint, do me a favor and run down the list of activities again?"

"We've got tree planting, day trips to local farms, recycled goods drive, green energy boot camp with Ian Somerhalder…"

"Oh, great, we're going to have to look at his mug on everything," I groan.

"I don't mind," Coulson says, and Clint elbows his side.

"Maybe some rides and attractions would be good," Natasha offers. "A Ferris wheel that runs on solar power? Or a dunk tank with dyed water. We can call it the 'oil spill tank.'"

"I like it," I say, pointing at her. "Love it, even. Make it happen."

Everyone at the table goes silent when we notice Fury and Steve poking their heads into the room. Fury squints his eye at me and then peers at Steve.

"This is your influence, Rogers?" he asks. Steve just gapes, wide-eyed. I fold my arms across my chest and try not to swallow my tongue.

"If you don't mind, gentlemen, my committee is in the middle of an important planning session."

Fury looks pleased as he nods and walks away. Steve just gives me that strange look again, similar to the other day, before he clears his throat.

"Well, uh. Carry on, everyone," he says. "Tony, good work."

Then he salutes us. He fucking _salutes_.

"How does that guy _live_?" Clint asks after he goes.

"On hoagies and freedom," I say.

I realize at that moment that I seem to have sweat through my eco-friendly shirt. I tuck my hands under my armpits and ignore Coulson's smug, knowing smile. I decide right then that I'm going to murder him. After the Earth Day fair, sure, but then immediately following that. Murder.

*

I don't have to tell you guys that the fair turns out to be a total and utter success. You could have guessed as much, once I told you that I was in charge of it. Everyone's having a blast, getting into dirt fights by the composting stand, perusing the pop-up vegan clothing boutique, and taking photos with Ian Somerhalder, who looks constipated in every single shot. How does he manage that?

Looking around, I feel a rush of pride, better than any endorphins I could ever get doing cartwheels in the sky. People are having fun and learning something at the same time, and it's all because of _me_. I did this. I know; I can hardly believe it myself.

My phone buzzes and it's Coulson, checking in from the farm visit station. "Farm shuttles staying on schedule, Agent Coulson?" I ask him.

"Just about. We had a bit of a snafu when a bunch of SUVs showed up but I called the rental company and had them switched to energy-efficient vehicles right away."

"Which is what we asked for in the first place. Jesus, these people. They've got shit in their ears. All right, thanks for handling it, and keep up the good work out there."

"You got it. Over and out."

I hang up and head toward the recycling drive booth, which I'm manning for the next hour. On the way, I spy Natasha and Thor on the Ferris wheel together, and they both wave to me from high up in the sky. Thor appears to be a little more enthusiastic—what else is new?—but Natasha has a smile on her face, one that's actually verging on carefree. It's a good look for her.

I wonder if this means Thor's not mad at me anymore. If I'd known all it would take was getting him a Ferris wheel to ride, I would have done that a lot sooner. I can't dwell on it, though, because I've got recyclable goods to receive.

My first customer turns out to be Jane Foster, who somehow hoists a gigantic box filled with clothes, books, and other junk onto the table. She's stronger than she looks. I bet Thor would appreciate that.

"Foster, you brought the mother lode with you," I say, picking through the stuff.

"It was all just lying around my house, taking up space," she says, smiling. "I can be a bit of a hoarder. I'm trying to get past that."

I pull out a shirt that's meant for a seven-year-old and smirk. "You don't say."

"Anyway, Tony, I'm glad you're here," she says, adjusting her glasses. It occurs to me that she'd look really pretty with them off, but they work for her. She's got a sexy librarian thing going. More importantly, I'm out of the makeover business. People should dress however they want, even if they look like cosplayers who wandered away from the forest. "I've been thinking about your shoes for weeks."

"What shoes?" I ask, tossing a bunch of old notebooks into the paper waste pile.

"Those really expensive sneakers I ruined at that party? I feel terrible about it, so I've been saving up my babysitting money, and—" Jane starts pulling cash out of her front pocket and I immediately wave my hands to stop her.

"Hey, no. They're just shoes. I have _tons_ of shoes." I can't help but smile fondly. God, she's such a sweet, innocent weirdo. How did I never see how fucking _perfect_ she is for Thor? "You should donate that to the Earth Day fund instead. Hey, better yet—spend it on a date with Thor."

"Thor? Yeah, right. He hates me. You saw how he talked to me that day at lunch."

"I think he was just having an off day. Norse gods—one day they're happy, and the next day they're starting lightning storms. Am I right?"

Jane laughs, but it's a sad little thing. Her heart's not really in it. "Anyway, thanks for being understanding about the shoes and for putting all of this together. You did a really amazing job. I'm excited about the environmental science fair this afternoon."

Another great idea of Natasha's, that science fair. Jane was one of the first people to sign up, surprise surprise. "I'd say I hope you win, but I already know you will."

"Well, we'll see," she says. She blushes as she walks away, and _damn_ , what the hell? When did Jane Foster get cute?

Later, I'm heading over to the science fair, surveying the landscape of my glorious triumph, when someone with a familiar gait falls into step with me.

"Tony Stark," Thor greets me. He's dressed down in a T-shirt and shorts, his hair pulled back in a ponytail. I guess even gods don't like wearing their hair down on a warm day. "I wish to speak with you regarding the events of our last meeting."

"Okay, well, you're not going to conjure up your hammer out of thin air again, are you? Because I'd really like to end this day without a concussion."

He stops me with a hand on my arm, before grasping both of my shoulders in his big, meaty palms. "I must apologize," he says. "Your generosity since my arrival in Midgard has been immeasurable. I was foolish to dismiss your opinion, and with such haste.

Quite an apology. Clearly, they teach their kids well in Asgard. I give Thor's bicep a squeeze, which he probably barely feels, given the circumference of his arm in comparison to the width of my hand.

"Buddy, I'm the one who's sorry. I should have been more supportive. Jane, Loki, Steve—I mean, whoever you want to go out with, it's all good." Though I really, really hope it's not Steve. It's my last selfish thought, I promise.

"Jane," Thor repeats, looking sad. "I was cruel to her. I don't expect her forgiveness."

"You can talk to her, I bet." I smile and pat Thor's side. "So, are we cool?"

Thor laughs and picks me up for a bone-crunching embrace that I try to reciprocate, flailing as my feet leave the ground. Remind me to never let him near the reactor.

Just as I predicted, Jane wins the science fair. It's not even close. Thor and I cheer from the sidelines as Ian Somerhalder presents her with the gold medal and poses for a photo op.

"You know what, Thor? I was an asshole, steering you away from Jane. She's smart, she's hot, and she kicks ass. I totally approve."

Thor makes a sound somewhere between a rumble and a sigh. "She does indeed kick ass, my friend."

The love in the air doesn't last for long, though. Thor starts to growl under his breath when Somerhalder gets his arm around Jane and leans in just a _little_ too close. Then he gives her a congratulatory kiss on the cheek. Thor tenses beside me, lets out a fucking _roar_ , and, oh god, I can't even look.

"UNHAND HER, VAMPIRIC FIEND!"

"Thor, he only plays one on TV! He doesn't—"

"I WILL FIGHT YOU FOR HER HAND!"

Yeah, we're never going to get Somerhalder to do this again next year. Jane looks torn between horror and giddiness as Thor tackles him to the ground. I'm kind of giddy myself—Thor seems firmly in love with Jane again, so he'll be happy, and his crush on Steve won't be an issue anymore. I should probably do something about this situation, though. Somerhalder keeps shouting, "Dude, not the face, not the face!" and everyone is just standing there, recording it on their phones. Hopefully Coulson won't mind if I make him do damage control with this one.

"Hey, cool fight," Clint says, appearing at my side out of nowhere with Natasha. How the hell did they get so stealthy? It's unnerving. "We're gonna go shoot at bottles and cans. Wanna come?"

"I suppose that's one way of recycling. Kinda busy here, but have fun."

"It's good for Mother Earth," Natasha says. She smiles and punches my arm, then dashes off with Clint. I can see this is the beginning of a beautiful, trigger-happy friendship.

Anyway, right. Operation: Save Ian Somerhalder's Delicate Bone Structure. I exhale, crack my knuckles, and step into the fray.

*

"So, that's how you got that bruise," Steve says. He looks up from his paperwork with a smirk. Yeah, S.H.I.E.L.D. makes special paper copies of everything, just for him. It would take far too long for him to get through it otherwise. "I'm relieved to know you didn't _start_ the fight."

"Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter," I say. We exchange a tense look before breaking eye contact and laughing. "Well, I mean, um, anyway. It's okay because Thor felt really bad about it and took me out for burgers after. You know I'll forgive pretty much anything for a cheeseburger."

"That _is_ something I knew about you, yes."

I feel really proud of myself, not only for putting together a great fair, but also because I've trained myself to talk to Steve without wetting my pants. He invited me into one of the empty conference rooms so I could tell him about the fair while he worked on something highly classified, yadda yadda. I don't even care what he's doing; I'm just pleased that I'm not so far gone as to have to turn down a golden opportunity to watch Steve write his report. There's some nice finger and bicep flexing happening here, and every now and then, his hair falls into his eyes and he flicks it back with a little upward tilt of his chin and I'm _this close_ to stealing one of his pages and writing a sonnet about it.

"But yeah, it'll be an annual thing now—which is great, because it'd be a shame to only do it once. We raised almost ten grand, and I mean… I never thought I'd say this, but all the work we put into it was way more satisfying than just writing a check. Not that anyone would begrudge me doing that, but this way we raised money and got to have fun at the same time. I mean, that Ferris wheel was _aces_. People lost their fucking _shit_."

I look up from my rant and Steve is looking at me again. He keeps doing that lately; his eyes get kind of crinkly at the corners, as if he's trying to puzzle something out. He's also smiling, and it's _kind of_ a dopey smile. I'm not sure what it means. I mean, I _think_ I know what it means. I'm saying the word "mean" a lot, but you know what I mean. This is _Steve_ and Steve is looking at me like…

…like he maybe, possibly, hopefully likes me back? _Loves_ me back?

"What the hell's going on here?" Some S.H.I.E.L.D. drone bursts into the room, and the door bangs loudly against the wall, making us both jump. "Rogers, are you working on the Morgan case? While _he's_ sitting here? That thing is _classified_."

"Agent Spitzer, this is Tony's _home_. And Director Fury trusts him."

"I'm not sure he should." Spitzer walks over and grabs the file out of Steve's hands. "Nor you, for that matter. We don't keep you around to compromise important cases and make eyes at the Stark kid."

"Um, ex-squeeze me, Agent _Shitster_ ," I say, lifting a finger. "You're only here because I _let_ you be here. That goes for you and your entire organization, which—oh, yeah— _doesn't belong to you_. Not only that, but if I really wanted to find out what was in your precious classified files, I wouldn't have to sit in a room with you to find out. This is _my_ home, I have top clearance on all of the security, and I'm a lot smarter than you and most of your fellow agents put together."

Shitster doesn't like that much. He turns and gives me the most dismissive sneer anyone has ever dared to give me.

"If you're so damn smart, how'd you end up with that shrapnel in your chest?"

Steve jumps out of his chair, his entire face red. "That was _completely_ out of line, Agent Spitzer."

It was pretty out of line, at that. And, wow, it actually kinda hurt a little. No one ever brings up the hostage incident to me. I think they all assume I have PTSD over it, which, well, maybe. A little. Certainly, no one has ever been breathtakingly thoughtless enough to accuse me of being too dumb to avoid a life-threatening injury during a _shootout_. I watch Steve shove the turd around, demanding an apology on my behalf, but it's hard to concentrate on anything besides my stomach turning.

"You damned insensitive bastard," Steve yells. "He's just a kid!"

Oh.

"Yeah, okay," I mutter, getting up from the table abruptly. I rush out of the room and ignore Steve's shouts of my name, making a beeline for my lab. When I get there, I take great relish in knocking a few things off my desk, including the latest prototype of my helmet. Clearly, I _am_ pretty dumb if I even thought for a nanosecond that Steve would be interested in a—a kid. A self-absorbed, poor little rich boy like me. Dummy tries to console me but I throw a wrench at him and he scurries away with a metallic whine.

The last time I cried, I was close to bleeding out of my chest, and I was afraid I was going to die. I'm not going to cry over Steve, I tell myself as I curl up on the couch. I won't.

"Lock the door, JARVIS. S-security code alpha-nine-six, level seven clearance."

"Engaging security code alpha—"

"No, no, no!" Steve yells on the other side of the door, banging on the glass. "JARVIS, don't lock it! I need to talk to Tony!"

"Sir, Captain Rogers is at the door," he says, as patient and dry as an A.I. unit can possibly be. "If he continues hitting the door at the same level of force as he is currently exerting, he will break the glass in approximately eight point three seconds—sooner if he increases his force."

"I noticed," I say. I lift my head and see Steve prodding at the lock, trying to figure out the mechanism. Unfortunately for him, it doesn't respond to gentle caresses. "Fine, let him in."

The door swings open and Steve nearly tumbles inside and down the stairs, but he manages to catch himself at the last moment. "Thanks, JARVIS," he says.

"Certainly, Captain Rogers," he answers. Damn JARVIS and his big robo-crush on Steve.

"I'm not here," I say, slinging an arm over my eyes. "What you're seeing is one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s many highly functional life model decoys of Anthony Edward Stark. Your tax dollars at work—except they probably don't make you pay taxes because you saved the world once. If that doesn't get you a lifetime get-out-of-jail-free card, I don't know what will."

"Tony," Steve says, and when I open my eyes, he's standing right beside the couch, looking down at me. He looks sad again and I point a finger at him.

"Do not give me the sad, 'You Hurt Captain America' puppy-dog eyes. Those eyes are _not_ allowed in this lab. This is a safe space."

"You didn't hurt me." He crouches down so our faces are closer, which is both magnificent and terrifying—like gazing upon one of the Wonders of the World. Fucking Stonehenge or something. "You're the one who's hurt and I'm sorry for that, Tony, I really am. I'm going to make sure Spitzer doesn't get away with what he said to you."

I groan and cover my eyes again. "Oh, my god. You think I give two shits about what that howler monkey said? He's probably never been shot at in his entire life. Plus, he thinks that I don't regularly bug private S.H.I.E.L.D. meetings, so I _know_ he's a moron. I probably have access to more classified information than he does."

"That's…I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." Steve rubs a hand over his face and sighs. "If that's true, then why did you run out of the room like that? And please do me a personal favor and actually _tell me_ instead of whispering it to your pocket flask. You're too young to be an alcoholic."

Ugh. "Too young to do anything," I mutter, turning my head away. Steve actually grabs my chin, what the fuck, and wrenches it back. " _Ow_. Watch the facial hair. I haven't had it for all that long."

"What are you talking about? You prove to me and everyone else, on a daily basis, that you're not too young to do anything."

I feel like blowing a raspberry at Steve but I settle for pushing his hand away. "I'm just a _kid_. You said so. Remember? I know the ice kept your brain pretty well-preserved up there in the icy north."

"Wow, thank goodness," Steve says, ducking his head and chuckling. "That's the first time you've made an ice joke in ages. I didn't realize how much I missed it until now. I'm kind of relieved."

Ugh, and this is _just like_ Steve. Here I am, trying to be broody and pissed off with him, and he has to go and smile like that at me, and make my stomach flip with how handsome and sweet and awesome he is.

I smile wryly at him, despite myself. "You didn't _really_ miss it. That'd be like a cat missing when someone turns a hose on it."

"Call me a masochist, I guess." He leans against the couch cushion and exhales. "Technically, you _are_ young, Tony. You're not even old enough to vote, so you can't really deny that. And I admit, I do worry about you sometimes. What with the drinking and the…well, this." He touches the arc reactor lightly, almost reverently, and it feels as though my heart skips a beat in response. I think of all the times I've caught him staring at the reactor. I had no idea he worried over it—that he worried about me. "It made me so mad, what he said to you, because I see this and I can't—I can't even imagine, Tony. You were so _young_ , and you've been through so much, and…"

I swallow with some difficulty. "Please don't tell me I'm the wind beneath your wings," I whisper.

"The—the what? No. What?" Steve shakes his head and places his entire, broad hand over the reactor, taking a deep breath. "Tony, you're brilliant and you're handsome and you're brave and I thought your _father_ was really something but you're just…" He stops to laugh faintly and runs his free hand through his hair. "I might be a little in awe of you."

I sit up straight and blink owlishly at him. " _You're_ in awe of _me_? How can you even _say_ that? Do you know who you _are_? Have you looked in the _mirror_ today? Do you even _know_ how many italics I'm speaking in right now? Seriously, if this were a screenplay, every other word I'm saying would be italicized because _what in the ever-loving_ —"

Steve grabs me by the back of the neck, pulls me in for a kiss, and shuts me the hell up. _Thank god_. I fist my hands in his too-tight T-shirt, not knowing where else to put them, and haul him onto the couch. Once he's there with me, I run my hands over his chest and fuck, it's like I can't touch him enough. I've been lusting after him for weeks. Or, well, let's be real—for longer than I'd like to admit. I tilt my head and then his tongue is in my mouth—oh, my actual fuck, _his tongue is in my mouth_ —and I have to draw back before I accidentally come in my pants.

"Buh—listen. Wait, um. That guy. He was a thrill and a half. What's his name? Duckie?"

"Bucky," Steve corrects me. His lips are cherry-red, glistening, and mesmerizing. "Didn't work out. He wasn't you."

"How are you so fucking dreamy," I mutter as I lean in to kiss him again. I recline on the couch and draw him down with me me, our lips never leaving each other. Steve's weight on top of me feels amazing and I never want to stop kissing him, which is why I let out an embarrassing little whine when he pulls back.

"I don't want to break the reactor," he says, sucking in a breath.

"Are you kidding? You won't. It can withstand almost anything. I made it, remember?"

Steve scoffs and sucks my bottom lip into his mouth, which, yes. I let out a groan and arch up into him—at which point, I feel his answering hardness. On the one hand, _God bless America_. On the other, I have no idea what to do with this glorious dick pressing against me. Steve probably thinks I do this all the time and I definitely don't want to disappoint him. I try not to think about it as I reach down with shaky hands to pluck uselessly at his fly. Then Steve grabs my wrist and stops me.

"Tony, hold on. I'm not sure what the age of consent is these days."

"Are you kidding me? God, of course you're not." I grunt and drop my head back. "JARVIS, quick Wikipedia search on that?"

"According to Wikipedia, the age of consent in New York State is seventeen," he answers immediately.

"See? Seventeen. Anything else you wanna look up? First moon landing? Capital of Zimbabwe? Full episode list of _The Golden Girls_?"

Steve looks at me skeptically. "Didn't you once say that Wikipedia is user-edited and—"

"NO. Back to kissing," I hiss, grabbing his face with both hands. Honestly, _now_ Steve remembers something I told him about the Internet? He can't even figure out how to save a bookmark. Luckily, the kissing is enough to distract him, and I guess he's satisfied with JARVIS' answer because he's sucking on my tongue as though he hasn't tasted anything so good in his life. I bury one hand in his hair and grab his ass with the other, pulling him closer to me. I can tell he likes it, what with the way he moans into my mouth, but it still takes me by surprise when he reaches for the zipper on my fly. Who is this person and what did he do with pedantic, goody two-shoes Steve? Or maybe it's just me who needs to slow down.

"Hey, wow," I say, breaking the kiss. "Moving right along, aren't we?"

"Well, I trust JARVIS. And I would really like to have sex with you." Steve looks up at me, his face falling. "Tony, what's wrong?" he asks. I realize that I must look as tense as I feel.

"Nothing, just…" I shut my eyes for a moment and then just blurt it out. "I'm a virgin, okay? I haven't done this before."

To my surprise, Steve doesn't seem shocked by this revelation. "I thought maybe you and that Black Widow girl…" He trails off, tilts his head, and smiles brilliantly. "So I'm your first?"

"Oh, god. Are you going to get sappy about this? Because I can't handle it. You and your _feelings_ , I swear to god. How can a person _live_ with so many feelings?"

"It's extremely arduous," Steve murmurs. He kisses me again and I wrap my arms around his shoulders. "I was, too, until about six months ago. I'm hardly Mr. Sexy but I'll take care of you."

"Mr. Sexy," I repeat. "So sexy that he was a frozen virgin for seventy years." I keep my voice deadpan even though I'm melting a little inside at the whole 'I'll take care of you' thing because good _goddamn_. How can Steve be so corny and then so seductive in the same breath? "Okay, you lead, Mr. Sexy."

Steve nods dutifully, ever the perfect soldier, and then he whips his shirt off and my throat goes dry. I think he wants me to follow his lead but I'm too busy staring at his flawless fucking body, so he has to lift my arms and do the dirty work for me. The arc reactor glows brightly and he traces the edge with light, teasing touches of his fingertips—the area where the metal meets the skin. Then he leans down and kisses the same path, moving his hands to my nipples and down my sides, making me shudder. I want to touch him back but it seems almost wrong to lay my hands on all that unmarred, golden skin. I do it anyway because, whatever, this is Steve and this is _me_ and I'm greedy and I want all of him. I rub my palms over his broad shoulders and down his back, to his narrow waist, kneading with my fingers. He lets out a small moan against my collarbone and my dick stirs to life once again.

"Okay, to be honest," he says, kissing along my jaw. "I've only done this twice and I wasn't very good." Which is ridiculous because Steve is good at everything, and I bet that lucky guy or girl saw red, white, and blue fireworks at the moment of orgasm, though I don't say as much. "So…let's just do what feels good, okay?"

"Okay," I say, not really sure what he's getting at. But then Steve rocks his hips against mine and I feel that fine American cock again and _fuck yes_ , I get it now, all too well. And yeah, I know that my cock is technically American, too, but Steve's is _American_. Made in the USA: land of the free, home of the hung. I clasp the back of his neck and grind back against him and we both make needy, almost startled noises at the motion. It's too good not to repeat, again and again.

" _Tony_ ," Steve groans, right into my neck. The sound of him saying my name like that makes my eyes roll back in my head. I'm going commando today—like most days—so I can feel where my dick is starting to dampen my pants, and he can probably feel it, too. I look down in time to see him staring at the wet spot, and he kinda looks like he wants to _devour_ me. I, for one, am not opposed. "Let's—we should take our pants off," he says. I nod furiously because it's a hell of an idea. Steve is _full_ of good ideas. Who knew?

Actual skin-on-skin contact feels amazing, as does Steve's cock, which is…god, I don't even know. Long. Gorgeous. Hot and slick. I have this wild, inappropriate thought that I should thank my dad for helping to make this moment possible. It's probably just because my brain is short-circuiting from all of the splendid things happening right now, what with Steve touching every part of me—his dick rubbing against mine, his hands tracing along my sides, his mouth skimming over my throat. I reach up and offer him the flat of my palm, which I swear makes his pupils dilate.

"Tony, that is _dirty_ ," he murmurs. But then he holds my wrist and licks across my palm and I have to try not to come right then and there. Again.

"Just because I'm a virgin doesn't mean I don't have dirty thoughts. Like, all day, every day."

"About me?" he asks, with a hint of wonder in his voice.

"Well, duh. Yes, you. And this." I reach down and wrap my slick hand around him. Steve gasps and bucks into my grasp.

"M-maybe don't, if you want me to do this, you know…properly," he says.

"God, I don't care. _I don't care_. I'm seventeen and I deserve a fucking medal for not coming the minute you took off your shirt."

Steve laughs in this strung-out way, his breath warm against my cheek, and I can't help it, I have to kiss him again. I never want to stop kissing him. We keep rutting against each other, until he gets his huge hand around us both, and then it feels like there's a sob trapped in my chest, somewhere behind the reactor, threatening to burst out. I want to shout, to cry, to scratch his back to shreds, but all can I do is hang on because I'm going to come and I need to _feel_ it.

"Tony, you're so good," he whispers, his thumb slicking its way up and down my cock. And, god, that's just not _fair_. His free hand teases the sensitive crease between my ass and thigh and somehow, that small, gentle, somewhat lecherous gesture sets me off, my back bowing as I shoot all over our stomachs. When I stop gasping and shaking long enough to open my eyes, Steve is rutting against my hip. The wild look in his bright eyes steals my breath.

"Oh, damn, I—I think I'm going to, to…"

It occurs to me, even in the haze of the afterglow that comes with being deflowered by Captain fucking America, that I've never before heard Steve say, "damn." I am an excellent bad influence on him, but my work is never done.

"You can't say it, can you? Bless your creamsicle heart. _Come_ , Steve. You're going to come hard, all over me, just like we've both always—"

" _TONY_!"

And damn if that isn't a beautiful sight. Hell of a way to shut me up, too. Captain America having an orgasm. I should film that and send it off to the United Nations. I could establish world peace.

"Oh…oh, rats," Steve says, panting hard and back to his old-timey ways. "That wasn't really how I pictured that going."

I squint at him. "The sex or the talk?" I ask.

"No, no, the sex." He gives me an apologetic look. "Your first time and I…finished too early. And…on you."

"Rogers," I say, running a hand through his carefully parted hair. "That was probably the most awesome thing I've ever done in my life, so chill. You're good at chilling; you have a long and storied history of it. Also, need I remind you again: I'm _seventeen_. Therefore, I have a refractory period of about five minutes and a bedside drawer full of tissues and lube. Which is why we should go to my room, I think. Would you like to go to my room? Think about it, because there's only one correct answer that I will accept and that answer is _hell, yes_."

Steve smirks at me. "Heck, yes."

"Not the correct answer," I say, shaking my head.

But when Steve hauls me up off the couch one-handed and smacks my ass to get me moving, I sure as hell (and sure as heck) go. It's wise to choose one's battles.

It would also be wise to invest in shades for my workshop, seeing as how we just got it on in an underground lab designed to look like an Apple store. Actually, sex in an Apple store sounds kind of fun. I wonder if Steve's into exhibitionism. I'll have to ask him.

*

"Hurry _up_ , Stark! At this rate, you'll get your slow ass there in time for the divorce proceedings!"

Another day, another shit fit from Nick Fury. You know, I think I'd miss it if he were to ever leave the mansion and actually give me some privacy, though he'd miss me more. I look in the mirror and adjust the tie that JARVIS picked out for me. He always comes through.

"Nice choice. What do you think, JARV? Am I a fox, or what?"

"You look very becoming, sir."

"Aww, I bet you say that to all the handsome, teenage inventors."

I should be clear: This is not _my_ wedding. I'm lucky Steve agreed to have sex with me at all, let alone marry me. As it was, he had JARVIS look up at least five other sources on that age of consent thing, once it totally didn't matter anymore. I should have pretended to call the cops on him as soon as we were done. Lost opportunity.

I strut down the hallway to the main staircase, feeling pretty dashing in my suit. Then I catch sight of Steve, standing there and waiting for me in his dress uniform. The Army gifted him with new duds because he's Captain fucking America, and pretty much the best soldier they've ever had or will have. He looks so good that I have to concentrate on not falling down the stairs and breaking my neck. The smile he gives me actually sparkles in the light

"Tony, you look… _wow_."

" _Me_? You look like you just stepped off the U.S.S. Studmuffin. C'mere."

"We're going to be—mmph."

Sorry, everyone, Steve can't come to the phone right now because I'm too busy tongue-fucking his mouth. It happens. I flick my tongue against his palate in that way I know makes him shiver and he draws me closer, his hand on my waist and snaking around to the small of my back, when—

" _Excuse me_ , but I have better things to do than stand here and watch you two lovebirds swallow each other's faces before you go to the prom."

"Wedding," I say, breaking the kiss with a harsh breath. "But we _are_ going to prom next month. I wouldn't pass up a chance to make everyone jealous."

"Muh," Steve agrees, blinking slowly. God, he's cute when he's incoherent.

"Whatever. Get the hell out of here already." Fury tosses Steve a set of keys. "You drive, Rogers. No matter what kinds of sexual favors the kid promises you."

"I am _offended_ ," I say, as Steve goes red in the face beside me. "Offended that you think my sexual favors wouldn't be outstanding enough to trump one of your dullsville lectures, that is. Steve, don't listen to him; I will do you _good_."

"Please, let's go," Steve says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to the door. I'd say I let him but he's pretty strong. I wave goodbye to Fury and get one last eye roll for my efforts.

"Bye, Cyclops! Catch a lot of bad guys!"

Oh, right, I didn't tell you whose wedding it was! Why, none other than Dr. Bruce Banner and Ms. Virginia "Pepper" Potts, of course. Yes, those two formerly dead inside teachers are now disgustingly in love and getting hitched, and it's all thanks to me. Well, and Coulson, I guess. I still think that condom would have worked its magic much faster than his poem, though.

The ceremony is great—romantic and short, just as it should be. Steve cries, of course. I expected as much, so I brought two pocket packs of Kleenex with me. On my other side, Coulson gets a little misty-eyed, but when I offer him a tissue, he threatens to wedge it down my throat and suffocate me. Always denying his feelings. It's not healthy.

We all end up at a table together during the reception: Phil, Clint, Thor, Jane, Natasha, Darcy, Loki, Steve, and me. I guess it's kind of weird that teachers would invite students to their wedding. They probably don't have that many friends. Ooh, check it out, mini quiches.

"So, you are Tony's chosen mate," Loki says to Steve over the salad course, sizing him up. "I suppose you are…adequate."

Steve blinks and chews on a cherry tomato. "Thank you?"

"That ceremony was _classy_ ," Darcy says. "I want mine to be just like that."

"Yeah, and no one turned into a giant, green rage monster at any point," I say. "I hope Potts invests in a shitload of homeowner's insurance."

"When my darling Jane and I are wed, we will release two hundred doves into the sky! And there will be a feast that lasts for days on end!" Thor slams his palm on the table, making all of the glasses and plates shake. Loki snorts into his napkin. Jane cringes and strokes Thor's forearm.

"That might be expensive," she says. "We'll talk, okay?"

"What about you, Phil?" I ask, nudging his side. "What's your big day going to be like? I know for a fact you won't be wearing white."

Coulson just sips his drink—sparkling cider, thanks for nothing, Bruce and Pep—and clears his throat. "I haven't given it much thought."

"That is such a _lie_ ," Clint says, throwing his head back. "He talks about that shit _all the time_. What kind of flowers he wants, how it has to be _tasteful_. How I'm not allowed to shoot anything or anyone during the ceremony."

"That's a shame," Natasha says, reaching for her drink.

"You're lucky I haven't shot that stupid eyebrow ring off your _face_. I do _not_ —"

"Phyllis, that is so romantic," I say. "Promise me I can be your maid of honor? I'll let you be mine in return."

Phil narrows his eyes and pulls a straw from his inside jacket pocket, holding it close to my face. "I'm pretty sure I figured it out. Don't make me test it on you."

"Have you just been...carrying that around?" I ask, swallowing. " _The same straw_?"

Clint interrupts with a groan as he rummages through the breadbasket, touching everything and earning a glare from Thor. "You hear that, Cap? They're planning our weddings already. Trying to hold a player down."

"What are we playing?" Steve asks. Clint stares at him, bug-eyed, and Steve realizes his mistake. He sighs and scratches the back of his head. "Okay, clearly that's something new I need to look up in the Urban Dictionary."

Loki tilts his head as he regards Steve. "On second thought, you're rather precious, aren't you?"

I hide my smile behind my hand and squeeze Steve's knee under the table. "Hands off, vultures. I'm the only one patriotic enough to be with him."

"Is 'patriotic' a synonym for 'obnoxious' now?" Clint asks.

Natasha smiles wryly. "Self-absorbed?"

"Insufferable, maybe," Coulson says.

"You people." I sigh and pop a piece of cucumber into my mouth. "You just don't love freedom the way I do."

Thor looks at the breadbasket in disgust and then tosses it somewhere behind him, the contents flying everywhere. "WE REQUIRE MORE ROLLS!"

The rest of the dinner is much the same.

Later, after the cake has been cut and the bouquet's been thrown—which Coulson caught, as he was likely to shank anyone who tried to stop him—Steve and I end up on the dance floor. I let him lead because he's bigger and, well, he doesn't know how to dance any other way. It's not the jitterbug, but it's nice. I tuck my nose against his neck and lean against him, just a little.

"So this is what it's like to slow dance with Captain America. I'm glad Thor doesn't get to have all the fun."

"You're a little more graceful than he is."

"I should hope so. Though I'd look badass in that winged helmet, I bet."

Steve kisses my forehead. I ignore the loud gagging sound Loki makes, a few feet away. "Your friends are all really nice," he says. "They care a lot about you, I think."

"They do, don't they? Even Loki has his moments."

"The one who tried to make it with you in his car?" Steve glowers across the dance floor. "You should stay away from him."

" _Make it with me_? Oh, my god. You really _are_ precious. And hot when you're possessive. Hot all the time. Hot like burning. Would it distract you from the dancing if I stuck my hand down your pants?"

Steve looks torn. "Probably. Also, this is a _wedding_ , Tony."

"Wedding, schmedding. That's what people do at weddings; they hook up. Haven't you ever been to one of these things before?"

"No." He smiles warmly. "This is my first."

"And it probably won't be the last, so let me show you how it goes." I kiss him soundly on the lips, a promise of things to come. "Once again, I, Tony Stark, will extend my generosity to you, Steven Rogers, by explaining a cultural phenomenon of great importance. In the men's room. With my mouth. On your penis—if you needed that spelled out for you."

Steve flushes and tightens his grip on my waist. "I…I'm grateful. Can you explain it, uh, now?"

"I think now would be good, yes."

We're not too subtle about our exit from the dance floor, but who gives a crap, really? We're crazy about each other and I don't care who knows it. Funny how that works. Also, we're young—or, well, young looking, in Steve's case—and if we don't get our rocks off, we might burst into flames. It'd be an ironic way for Capsicle to go, but not an ideal one. We rush to the restroom, Steve's hand gripping mine tightly. The open, lusty, wanting look in his eyes makes my stomach flip. Damn him.

Of course, when we get there, Coulson and Clint are walking out, their suits and ties thoroughly rumpled.

"All yours," Coulson says. "Captain. Stark."

"What? No! Not after you two went in there and jizzed all over everything!"

"You really are an artist with words," Steve says, grimacing.

Clint gives Steve an exaggerated salute as they walk off. "You snooze, you lose, muthafuckas! PEACE." Steve, bless his giant heart inside that giant body, shakes his head and sighs, clearly confused by it all.

"Okay, they're nice, but they're strange."

"You'll get used to it," I say. "Idea. Ladies' room down the hall? Natasha said they have fancy lotion in there."

"Tony, _no_."

I'm already tugging on his sleeve. "Come _on_. Just go in there and act confused. Pretend they didn't have sex-specific restrooms before the war."

"Is this what being your boyfriend is going to be like? Constantly dealing with your harebrained schemes?"

Boyfriend, I like the sound of that. It's very...official, like something to live up to. It's something I want to be and I plan to be damn good at it. I roll my shoulders back and put on my best poker face, even though there's a huge, ridiculous grin threatening to take over.

"Yes. And being mocked for saying things like 'harebrained schemes.' And a lot of awesome kissing." I lean up and demonstrate, licking slowly across his mouth. Steve makes a soft sound and grabs my hands before I pull away. "Basically a total lack of respect for your personal space. You in?"

Steve smiles his adorable, crooked smile. Then he says the three most beautiful words in the world, quickly followed by the three most exciting.

"Lead the way. I love you."

"I love you, too." A little shiver runs through me as we head down the hall. "Hey, I'll make it a rimjob if you let me drive home."

" _Keep walking_ ," he says.

You can't blame a guy for trying.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Clueless, or: How I Learned to Stop Being a Selfish Prick and Love a Capsicle](https://archiveofourown.org/works/778285) by [exmanhater](https://archiveofourown.org/users/exmanhater/pseuds/exmanhater)




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